The Girl With Green Boots

A friend of mine and I were talking yesterday about jealous boyfriends and husbands.  Or, more specifically, whether or not our significant others get jealous if we mention other men via Hollywood crushes, old boyfriends, admirers of the opposite sex--that kind of thing. 

And this got me thinking.  About the jealousy factor in my own marriage. 

I will be the first to admit that I am the most jealous bitch on the face of the planet.  I learned this about myself several years ago while Greg and I were strolling around the mall.  We were window shopping, and while both of us should have been looking in the same direction, one of us was covertly checking out a female standing about 20 feet away.  She was young, tall, boyishly thin but in that sexy way, wore low waisted jeans and some tight black t-shirt accesorized by silver hooped earrings and perfect red lipstick.  Her funky short hair (black) was the perfect. 

She was gorgeous.  Absolutley agonizingly sickeningly gorgeous. 

Yet it wasn't me gazing at her instead of the shop window.  I only learned of her appearance after I caught my husband looking at her from underneath downcast eyeballs.  When I turned my head to figure out what had caught his attention, it was then that I saw this perfect vampy creature had my husband's full attention. 

I just stood there and let him look, mostly to see how long it would take before he started drooling or panting.  At first I forced myself to feign (to myself) amusement, and recite little one-liners in my head like, "no matter how much he looks at her, he's still going to bed with me" or "she might be pretty, but that's probably because she hasn't pushed out two 9 pound babies of her womb" or "I read in Cosmo magazine that men don't really like thin women; in reality they like them with a little more meat on their bones."

and my personal favorite,

"He's only looking at her because he realizes how good he has it with me." 

Yeah.  Right. 

Just as quickly as I filtered through these bullshit coping skill excuses, I became irate.  Punching Greg in the shoulder and telling him to knock it off, he snapped back into reality and looked at me as if I had just lost my mind.  He wholeheartedly denied looking at her and claimed he had no idea what I was talking about.  He even used that tone of voice---you know---the one that tries to intimate that you are just imagining things. 

Finally just one hair shy of me making a public scene by raising my voice, he admits that, yes, he was indeed looking at this girl.  This creature of perfection. 

"I was just looking at her shoes", he says with resignation. 

Almost believing him (almost), I turned around for another peek at her.  Sure as shit, she was wearing an awful bright green shade of pointed-toe boots.  Funny that I, Seer Of All,  had  not noticed them before.

"You see?", he says.  "She's wearing ugly shoes....that's all I was looking at."

He's goooood.

But I know the truth.  He was scoping a hot chick; and while I am sure it wasn't his first gazing episode, it was the first time I had ever witnessed my man doing it.  And it hurt.

For days afterward, I evaluated my own appearance with a fine tooth comb.  Everything right down to the little hairs on my big toe, seemed disgusting and ugly and just so very wrong.  I forgot how many times a day Greg told me I was beautiful and sexy, and how many compliments he gave me on a number of things.  All I could think about was those 30 seconds that he was looking at her.   Thirty seconds that she stole from me. 
Just by standing there looking perfect, she took away something precious from my very naive and inexperienced soul:  the wholehearted belief that my husband would never desire another but me. 

I had become jealous!

Mind you, I was very young then and a mother of two babies just 16 months apart.  I was insecure and immature and nowhere close to understanding the workings of a male mind.  I figured that if I changed my appearance, maybe my husband would stop looking at other females altogether.  Forever. 

I started with my hair color.  As I was leaving for the store to choose a box, I asked Greg what color hair does he prefer on women?  Blondes?  Brunettes? Redheads?  Fully expecting an answer (I was expecting redheads), his answer was the biggest Freudian slip I have ever heard: 

*waving his hand casually* "Oh, I like all women.", he says. 

Let's just say that 12 years later, I still blow him shit about that one.  

Over the years, Greg has gazed upon many women.  And each time he does it, I admit I would like the claw their eyes out and cut off his penis.  It dosen't hurt any less today than it did back then, but my understanding of male mind and animal instinct has helped lessen the blow.  I am still jealous, just less threatened, I guess. 

Greg's fantasy girls are mainly Hollywood now.  Natalie Portman, Winona Ryder, Pink, Milla Jovovich are some of his favorites.  He's got that video "SheWolf" by Shakira on his computer; and he and Korbin like to spend "man time" watching it and drooling like idiots. 

Does it bother me?  Sure it does.  I would have to go in and tinker with my DNA to look like those babes.  I am short and petite---and even when the scale says I don't weigh much---I am never look thin.  When the scale says I weight a lot, I just look squarish and soft.  My hair is turning gray and thinning a bit; I have spider veins and cellulite; and I have a spare tire around my middle scattered with stretch marks.  While I may have what some call a "pretty face", I have dark circles and bags and red splotches if unaided by some miracle foundation.  I hate fashion.  I hate to shop long enough to even try to look put together. 

But despite my less than hottie appearance, I also am more in tune with reality than I used to be.  Winona isn't raising his kids.  Milla and Natalie are busy making movies; I'm fairly certain they won't be dropping by to listen to him bitch about work and rub his feet after a long day.  Shakira sure as hell isn't washing the skid marks out of his underwear. 

And so I let him look.  Let him fantasize or dream or whatever the hell it is he does.  I guess that's what happens after years of being with the same person.  I guess I just accept it.  We are all attracted to the ideal.  I believe it is human nature to be transfixed by what we know we cannot have; and overlook what is right in front of us. 

Because let's face it, when I'm not busy being a jealous bitch or keeping tabs on whatever hottie Greg is googling over, I'm drooling too.  It's funny, but when I was first married, I was so transfixed by my husband that I could not fathom the idea of looking at another man.  I didn't want to.  Didn't need to.  In my eyes, I had the sexiest and hottest guy alive.  He was mine.  And I dared not look the other way; otherwise I might lose the perfect picture I was already gazing upon. 

But that was because it was all new.  A brand new toy.  A vacation without a return trip home.

Of course, that newness wore off.  He has stinky breath in the morning.  A couple of back hairs.  Holes in his socks.  Dandruff.  The way he holds his fork started to irritate the shit out of me.  He takes longer in the bathroom than any of his Hollywood babes spend in their dressing rooms.  Sometimes in the middle of the night, he'll pass gas so foul that I have to remind myself I'm sleeping next to a human.  He watches T.V. while I'm talking to him.  He drives like a crazed asshole.

I could go on, but you get my drift.  Reality set in.  And with that, so did my own desire to gaze upon perfection once more.  Like him, I began to find myself attracted to male figures that represented what I cannot have, because it is thrilling! 

I am a Hollywood Horny.  Rarely do men in the "real world" appeal to me, because I still find my husband the most attractive man in my life.  But on the movie screen, it's a different story.  I do not want Robert Pattinson the actor---I want Edward the vampire.  I want Jacob the werewolf---not Taylor Lautner the 17 year old boy (I dunno, even that image has it's perks though).  I want Achilles and Hector from "Troy".

Okay, maybe I want Orlando Bloom.  He's delicious.

And I recant on my saying that there are no "real world" men that I am attracted to.  There was, once upon a time, a pharmacist that I would sooooo look forward to seeing whenever I needed a med refill.  He had a French accent and the most glorious turquoise eyes I have ever seen.  Black shiny hair and a little mustache.

But I didn't want to be involved with the guy.  I just wanted him to wear his lab coat and do me in the back of the medicine shelves.

A fantasy.  My ideal.  The daydreams that remind me of how much of a woman I am.

Should Greg be jealous?  No.  I love him and desire him still, however reality based that desire may be.  He knows of my crush on the French pharmacist; hell, he'd even stand there and chuckle while I stammered over my words talking to the guy.  Greg rolls his eyes lovingly as I continue to yammer on about Edward and Jacob and my desire to be fought over by two mythical creatures that don't exist.

It's what makes us human---being excited by what we cannot have and coming back to what we do have rejeuvanated and inspired.

So I guess it is safe to say that my jealous years have come to an end; partly due to maturity, but mainly due to the fact that I get it now.  We have fantasies; and just because we're looking, dosen't mean we're intending.   That perfect skinny girl with the green boots....she is a thing of the past, and in ways I suppose I am thankful for her for opening up that part of my being that needed to learn what it means to have desires and fantasies.  Whatever it was about her that caught my husband's eyes (I'm sure it wasn't her goddamn boots.  Idiot.), helped me to focus my own gaze when I, too, am needing an escape from the mundane. 

So my gift to you today, is the encouragement to revel in your fantasies and your ideals.  To cling to your image of perfection.  To daydream about whomever it is that you cannot have.  For it is what we cannot have, and what does not truly exist,  that reminds us to look at what is already right in front of us with fresh eyes and a more vibrant perspective....

And much hotter sex!