If this isn’t love—the kind of love a person waits at least half of her life for—well, then I don’t know what is. In fact, I don’t know anything at all. Check it out:
The other night, I was watching an old movie with Josh Duhamel on TV, when I couldn’t help but comment to my husband (who was just about to cross the border into REM sleep) how lucky Josh is to be married to Fergie.
“You know Fergie, don’tcha hon?” I say, knocking his shoulder to wake him up. “Of the Black Eyed Peas? I got a feeling, oaaww ooooh, that tonight’s goonna be a good night..oh yeah…oaww ooh…”
“Yeah, that’s nice.”
“I mean, if I were a guy, hell, I’d marry Fergie too. Smart man, that Josh. What’s not to want to marry?”
The fact is I have a crush on Fergie. Now close your mouth, I am NOT pitching for the other team. I love my husband and men in general. This is a different kind of crush – a “middle aged, if I could rent a flux capacitor and go back in time and be wistful and younger and be anything, I’d be Fergie,” kind of crush. Or, “in my next life, I’d like to come back as Fergie”. Or, “if I were a tall rich dude with a metabolic system that could easily be bronzed and plated for its wonder, and who could marry anybody on the planet, I’d have to say, it’d be Fergie.” Or, “if I could somehow make myself reincarnate, I would work with key players on the astral plane to reconfigure my own anatomy to somehow, someway, mock hers.” Or, “if I had to sing any song in the universe, I would sing her arrangement of “Big Girls Don’t Cry”, in like 12 different languages.
You get the drift.
Now, lest you think I’m sounding crazy, well, that’s fine. You’d fall into the category of those people who don’t get me. But my husband, he gets me. He gets me good.
And so, while he tried to roll away from my Fergielicious talk and hot forgot-to-brush chatty breath on his neck, I decided to put him to a little test. So I said, “Hon, don’t you think Fergie and I have a lot in common?”
He rolled over and faced me. “Uh huh.” A grunt, a subtle snort, and then a furrow of the right sight of his face into the memory foam pillow. A few deep breaths and he played dead. (Nice method approach, seriously.)
“Don’t you want to know what it is?” I say, moving my mouth up towards his left ear, figuring that since he didn’t say anything, it implied his obvious desire to hear more about mine and Fergie’s similarities.
“Okay, well, first of all,” I say, “despite my peri-menopausal tendencies, slight metabolic condition and predisposition to black spandex, we’re both hot, bootylicious hot.” Nothing. Not even a sniff.
“Second,” I continue, “even though somebody once called my singing reminiscent of the shower scene in Psycho, we both have a great voice—I’m talkin’ unbelievable range. Third, everybody likes us, no, IDOLIZES us. Good grief, get off us already. We’re HUMAN you know?”
Not even a lip quiver.
“Fourth, we’re sassy. We get written about a ton. The paparazzi follow us both everywhere (so annoying sometimes, really, and dangerous)—although fortunately, we both know how to handle it with much grace. And fifth, even though I work for a health-care consulting firm, we both know how to rock a sequin mini-dress at the “office” if you will.” I smirk. “Just ask my colleagues.”
On that, he starts to snore– that chainsaw kind of snore—and his eyes flutter for a split second.
Middle-age delusion is just delightful.
“In fact,” I go on, “if I remember correctly, I could have sworn that Fergie wore the very wedding dress I wore at our wedding—thank you Nicole Miller—when she married that hot little piece of spicy man-beef, Josh Duhamel, last year. There were a few crystals on it, remember?”
I poke his cheek.
“Yes, I think I saw her in it in Us Weekly. But I wore it better, don’t you think? Just a teensy bit?” I pinch my thumb and forefinger together precariously close to his right eye.
Nothing. Not a peep.
“Which reminds me of another thing we have in common, we are both married to HOT men.”
At that point, he sat up straight, opened both eyes, stared me straight in the face and said with the clarity of a Shakespearean-trained actor, “You know, I never thought about that before, but you’re right. You and Fergie are practically twins. Pretty incredible.”
And then, he dropped like a bee after a straight blue-collar day of stinging.
Now that’s love.
Tell me how it works in your world? Who’s your twin? Wink, nod. Give it up!
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Jill Sherer Murray is an award-winning writer and speaker who studies creativity, relationships and self-growth. She is also the founder of Let Go For It®, a lifestyle brand dedicated to helping individuals let go for a better life. Jill’s TEDx talk as well as her advice column, Big Wild Love: Let Go For It® were created in service to her loyal and growing fan base, who seek support in the act and the art of letting go for the love they desire and deserve. Follow Jill @letgoforit on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and LinkedIn.