Last weekend Harry paused while toweling off post-shower and said "Do I do romantic things for you? Am I romantic enough for you?"
Me, ever in the cheery and bright mood, said "No!" and then tossed all the toothbrushes in the house right into the garbage. Why? I'm a girl. I don't need a reason.
This dental brush dilemna was right after I chucked a large package of light bulbs at him and grunted while gestuing toward an ever-burnt out light fixture.
Then, by the light of the weekdays of lonliness (Harry was in Romney, WV - where ever the "f" that is...) I realized that he is very romantic and is endlessly sweet.
He's the type of man who walks while holding the umbrella more toward me than him, sacrificing his shoulder for my protruding handbag. Harry will always walk on the traffic-side of the street while I'm nestled closer to the dry buildings. He brushes my hair with caring strokes instead of attacking the tangles. My feet, even when stinky, are still fodder for a rub. He's confident enough in our love to let me have my "Married People Crushes" (though not yet enough for me to get a pool boy). I've drooled on him many a migraine-ish night to nary a complaint. When things go awry in the bedroom - he's kind enough to bring me a towel and then offer to wash my hair when I have been shot in the back of the head unexpectedly. He still finds me funny and mostly amusing. He tells me I'm beautiful when I first wake up with leftover make-up rings and exposed freckles. He makes the bed for me when he leaves me on Monday and puts my stuffed bear, bought for the child that wasn't, in the middle of the covers with remote in paw. For many months in a row he would drive home on a Friday night - just to have to leave for a return six hour trek- just to get to see me.
So, yes, babycakeshead, you're a romantic fool for me - and now - all the world knows it.
Now go empty the dishwasher.