I'm devoted to my marriage and still learning to love my husband (unconditionally) and get all my expectations in their rightful order.
This is my humorous love story... My Husband Shaves His _______
legs. It's the truth.
Now tell me, what great big hunk of a man shaves his legs? Isn't hair included in the sexy things you admire about your man?
OK, he's a cyclist, but it took me a while to get used to the idea.
"You know, I think I might start shaving my legs. It's something a lot of guys are doing these days-especially in Europe."
"If you shave your legs, it's the last straw. I mean it. I'm outa here." I said it with a straight face, and I meant every word. (The little voice in my head threatened: I will not be married to a man who shaves his legs. End of story.)
He got up from the table and went about his business. Think about this scenario here. Know what he did? Immediately - that very minute?
Don't tell a guy not to do something. Don't threaten his manhood. Think before you speak. Don't say things you may regret. Smile while you are speaking (and maybe add a wink). Ask questions if necessary. Consider compromise, trade, and barter. And utmost, pray without ceasing.
He showed me his tanned and beautifully shaved legs. (Sigh, another obstacle to overcome.) I needed to sit down.
"You gonna leave me now?" He leaned toward the door.
No comment, yet.
"Cyclists shave for a reason. If they get in a crash it's a lot easier to clean the cuts, you know. Take the Tour de France, show me a guy who doesn't shave his legs! Besides, there are a lot of men who shave, and not just their legs. Think Arnold Swartzenegger. And remember Sawyer from the Lost series? In one episode he had this big burly beard and not one hair on his chest." These were things I had not considered before.
"You already look like Nick Nolte, you have biceps bigger than Arnold's, and you own more wheels than Lance Armstrong. You gotta have hairless legs too?"
I didn't leave him, at least not then - over shaved legs.
I noticed the legs on all men from that time on. In the grocery store. Pumping gas. At the lake or in the park. On bikes as I swerved by. Without a fuss, I encouraged him to wear long jeans, not shorts. And though he was one of very few in our town, I had to admit, he had very nice legs - and pecs.
His chest hairs were bothersome. Popcorn and pretzel crumbs always nestled there, and they were too long, giving a hairy mottled appearance beneath his tank tops. Oh, and the belly hairs did the same thing. Off with their heads!
Ho hum. Time passed. Years really. And though I never got used to it, I decided to ignore it, and still didn't like being married to a man-who-shaves-his-legs. The one day after I returned home to him (the time I really did leave him for more practical reasons) he decided to let the hair grow and maybe just trim it occasionally.
I didn't have to ask, or anything.