I had a moment the other day. One of those moments that when I first got married I naively thought “That won’t be me.” Poor poor naïve Alicia.
It was always kind of a joke growing up, and even now, well into adult hood. That the woman fantasizes, day dreams, for a day all to herself. Where she has to take care of no one but herself, has to do nothing but what she wants to do.
When I started dating my husband, and when we moved in together, I thought that would never happen. How could I want to spend time without him? I wanted to spend every second of every day looking into his eyes and tell him how much I loved him.
I have been with him for five years, (I know small potatoes to some of you) and for the most part, I love seeing him every day.
But, confession! I was cleaning my house the other day. Vacuuming, running the dishwasher, laundry. You know, that list of chores that goes on and on and on and never seems to end.
And somewhere between my eight thousandth load of laundry, and loading the dishwasher with dirty dishes I am half convinced my husband does see lounging in the sink, it happened. I started having a fantasy.
In this fantasy, the mans name is Sven, and while he can understand everything I am saying perfectly, he cannot speak. Sven does all the chores in my house, carries me up and down stairs. Draws baths for me that always stay the perfect temperature and smells divine. He can give massages, and bake chocolate desserts that somehow I never gain any weight from.
Sven is just, the most perfect man I have ever met.
And then, my husband stomps into the kitchen in his slippered feet, slams a dish down into the sink (even though he sees me loading the dishwasher), and tells me he loves me.
Not only does he tell me he loves me, he wraps his arms around me and cuddles me close, hugs me tightly, and asks what he can do to help.
Maybe my husband isn’t Sven, but I guess he will have to do.