Just a few years ago, I had a huge pair of balls. Big, old honkin’ balls. And then I moved in with my boyfriend.
He’s not a particularly “Grr! I’m a man! I’m going to take care of you!” kind of guy. But he does like taking care of me, so I try to let him do that, and it’s nice having him around to do the unpleasant stuff. He lugs the garbage downstairs twice a week. He carries the heaviest grocery bags. He’ll get up in the middle of the night if I think I hear an axe murderer padding around our kitchen. It’s sweet and I love it. But if I’m honest with myself, being taken care of by a guy for the first time is making me a little soft. And I know this because just a few weeks ago, when he was out at band practice, I was walking up the stairs in my high-heeled boots, and I thought to myself, “I hope I don’t fall trip and fall! That would be bad! He’s not around to help me if I get hurt!”
I wasn’t always like this, I swear! I used to actually be, you know, independent. Let me take you back to spring 2004 … Keep reading »
