This is how my husband describes himself. You see, he's very attracted to women. I know, try to wrap your mind around it.
As I examined this phrase I realized that he might be right. He is kind of a girl.
He's not effeminate in any discernable way. And he does enough stupid man-things that I want to kill him on a regular basis. But if ever anyone were "in touch with his feminine side" it's him.
Allow me to illustrate.
My husband does not do home repairs. He has no idea how; he's not allowed to try. He can fix computers but nothing else. He does not own any tools. He is forbidden to touch power tools.
My husband likes scented candles. Way more than I do. His favorite scent is lilac. Back when I used to get invited to candle parties all the time there was always a handwritten note on the invite that said to bring him along. Please.
And speaking of parties, you should see him go nuts at a Pampered Chef party. He thinks anything made by Pampered Chef is a godsend. I was also instructed to bring him to these parties. The demonstrator would talk about an item, he would gush about how he uses it to make such and such, how he couldn't live without it, and sales would soar. I'm pretty sure that as long as he went no one would care if I even came.
At social gatherings he is much more likely to hang out with the women than the men. Those men are just such . . . men. They are just gross. He can't stand locker room talk or behavior. He doesn't talk sports. But get him with a bunch of women talking about the mini-whip from Pampered Chef and he can hold his own.
And as much as I love him, he is more like a 14-year old girl than I ever was. Emotionally needy. Playing mind games to get attention. Pouting when I don't include him.
I guess it works out well for us because I am more like a guy in so many ways. I own the tools. I do the repairs. I mow the lawn. I split the wood. I explain sports to him.
No, I do not consider myself a man nor am I trapped anywhere I don't belong. I'm just a very progressive girl.
We fit, in our own peculiar way. My favorite memory of how we're different would have to be as we prepared for a Memorial Day barbeque with my family. I was up in a tree with a chainsaw while he was in the kitchen making deviled eggs.
Yup, that's us.
If you liked this story, you'll love the one my daughter tells about him trying to do something manly.