My sensitive husband recently brought to my attention that I tend to make fun of him a little too often on my blog. My personal opinion is that in his little secret world he's the king. So when I bring up certain topics or stories where he is in fact NOT the king, he is forced to step off his porcelain throne. To make him cry a little less tonight, I've decided to wholly dedicate this post to making fun of myself.
I'm the first person to admit my own faults. That's where we'll start...all the things I'm bad at.
I can't snap my fingers. (do ya step, you can do it all by yourself, let me see you do it...sorry lil' jon.) When it does happen, which is infrequent and less than exciting, it is only on my right hand and under very precise conditions. My fingers cannot be sweaty, sticky, or too dry. The sun has to be out and the wind blowing in the eastward direction. On the note of making unusual noises with your body, (which my husband is GREAT at) I also cannot whistle. When I try it's high-pitched and spit goes everywhere. I'm like the llama in the zoo everyone is scared to get too close to.
As my husband points out, I'm extremely impatient when it comes to stop signs. I like to roll with it. I didn't realize until he pointed it out that I also go out of turn on a regular basis. It makes me wonder how many times I've been flipped off in the last six years.
About this time of year my legs go into 'winter-mode'. A lot of you women already know what I'm referring to. It's as if they hibernate, no one sees them for about four months. This obviously means there is absolutely no reason for me to shave them more than once every 6-8 weeks. My husband has vowed to love me through sickness and health, so how would a little hairy leg syndrome change that? Plus, I have to put up with his...oh wait, this isn't about him.
And then there's my cooking. Watching me cook is like watching the Kardashians. You just can't believe it could get any worse, and then it does. And yet you just don't stop watching. I'm not very good at bartending either. Part of the problem is that I didn't drink until I was 21, so I missed years of experience others have. (I never regret not drinking, just FYI.) When I do drink now, it's a few specific drinks. I can whip you up about eight different margaritas, but I've never heard of anything called a Zombie. And I always thought Pina Colada were just some goofy words in a song.
Flamenco dancing should also be put on the list, considering it requires a large amount of coordination. That's why I ran cross country in high school. Just one foot in front of the other, something I'd been doing my whole life. No worries about anyone through balls at my face.
This isn't one I have ever tried before, but I'm pretty sure I would be bad at an eating disorder. First, I love food way too much. Give up ice cream? I'll still eat it if it expired a week ago. Of course, in our house, ice cream never lasts longer than a day and half. Plus, puking grosses me out.
The amazing thing is that even though I'm pretty sour at all of these things, my husband loves me anyways. He still kisses me before he leaves for work. He'll still cuddle at night, whether it's his kind of cuddling or mine. He's never stopped taking me out on a date.
So I guess my point is that even though I may rag on him every so often, he's still my fuzzy wuzzy. Nothing will ever change that, not even his...oh crap. There I go again.
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