"Tim Robbins," she said.
"Susan Sarandon," I fired back.
Jody just laughed. "Chris Isaak," she volleyed.
"Oh, yeah, well, I wouldn't mind chatting with Teri Hatcher, let me tell
you," I said.
This was a low point: going one-on-one against my wife, pretending to be
intrigued by a clichéd cast of female celebrities who heat up pretty much every
middle-aged man in America, while she counterpunched with a carefully
considered list of ectomorphic men who make her weak in the knees.
"Hugh, you don't get it, do you?" Jody said. "Anybody can fall
in love with their type. I'm the one who ought to be offended. You could
have fallen for any woman with eyes this green and a figure to die for,"
she rolled on, gesturing toward her own. "You didn't fall in love with
me. You fell in love with this incredible body, with this incandescent
smile. That's a no-brainer. But for me to fall in love with you? That
took some imagination on my part."
"Oh, now I feel better," I said.
"You should," she answered. "My love for you is serious. I was
alert enough to get over my D.H. Lawrence fantasies of some powerful, rawboned
Stunned, I managed to mutter, "So you're saying that I am your type,
after all, right?"
"You're much better than my type," she said, grabbing me.
"You're my husband."
James Taylor, eat your heart out.
Originally published on: April 22, 2008
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