Thank God I’m (married to) a Country Boy

I may have to revise John Denver’s song a little to be more appropriate in my own life.

We were out and about recently, and on the way home we stopped for lunch.  On the way out I was waiting to pay the bill, and I couldn’t help but notice the guy in front of me.

He was probably middle aged, and he was very attractive and put together.  He was, in short, a classic metrosexual.  I don’t know if that term is still even in use, but I’m sorry, there really is no better way to describe him.  I don’t know how to explain it, but you can tell the difference between someone who is dressed in nice clothing for a meeting or for their job and someone who dresses that nice all the time.  This guy was one of the latter.

He was wearing a pea coat.  A pea coat.  Really.

Now don’t get me wrong–it’s a great coat.  Very snazzy.  In fact, everything about this guy was snazzy.  It wasn’t just his clothes–he had carefully product-laden and styled hair.  He had beautifully manicured and cared-for hands.  He was surrounded by a palpable aura of cologne.  He was wearing fantastic shoes.

The sight of this man made me think, as most things usually do.  Yes, this man was very attractive.  He obviously has impeccable style and grooming habits.  Guys like that aren’t all that common where I live, but you do see them sometimes, and I think it’s probably much more prevelant in other parts of the country where there is more hair gel and fewer pick-up trucks.  The metrosexual man is nice to look at.

But I couldn’t be married to him.

If I put a pea coat on my husband’s dead body, he would come back to life just long enough to take it off, throw it on the floor, and ask me what the hell I was thinking.  His hair style is a fade (short in the winter, skin in the summer.)  His idea of wearing dress shoes is cleaning the mud off of his boots (steel-toe.)  He’s 100% jeans and tee-shirt.  He has these big, rough hands and most of the time he needs a shave.  He is the anit-metrosexual.

That’s fine by me.

After thinking about it for a few minutes, it occurred to me that I could never, ever be married to a man who spent more time getting ready than me.  I can’t even imagine having a high maintenance man who actually manicured his fingernails.  Holy crap.  And frankly, my ego couldn’t take the fact that my husband had better fashion sense than me.

Let’s face it, a metrosexual wouldn’t come within ten miles of someone like me anyway, so the point is moot.  One look at my jeans and black Pink Floyd tee would be enough to send him screaming into Macy’s.  But that’s okay, because one look at him, and I’d run off screaming, too.

Into Wal-Mart.

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