|My husband is the exact opposite of the men you hear about. You know, the ones who forget birthdays and anniversaries. The ones who forget to call you if they're coming home late. The ones who always have to figure it out on their own and who won't ask for directions.
I wouldn't call him a Metrosexual. I hate that term anyway. It gives me visions of overweight guys with desk jobs, who wear Armani suits and drive "Beamers." My husband drives a Beamer, but it's a 1986 model in need of a lot of body work due to a run-in with a kangaroo late one night. (But that's another story.)
No, my husband can fix things, but he knows when he has to call in a professional for the job. This past year, we've paid for locksmiths, the washer repair man, and the telephone technician. We've also gotten a lot of repairs done on the ol' Beamer (named Hildegaard.) We had another Beamer named Chloe (a 1990 318i.) What a bitch she was! High maintenance - a real "taker." I heaved a sigh of relief when I traded her in for my reliable little economy car.
My husband looks equally sexy in jeans or in dress pants and a collared shirt. The one thing he can't stand, however, is a tie. He won't wear ties. He will wear Italian leather boots, however.
He drives a truck for a living. You know, one of the Big Ones, with a trailer, for hauling around container boxes at the port. They come in off the ships, get quarantined, emptied, and then stacked in a container yard. He gets paid good money for hauling them around all day. You'd think that might make him a bit rough around the edges - but no. He loves Classical music. He reads more than I do (right now he's reading Bill Bryson's A Short History of Nearly Everything.)
I never thought I'd be married to a Blue Collar guy. I grew up in a household where my mother was a teacher and my father worked with computers. So, I always assumed I'd be married to a guy with a desk job. I was married to this kind of man. Our marriage just kind of faded away.
I'll take my diamond in the rough any day over the guy with the desk job. My husband thinks he got a "glamour babe" when we got married. I hate to tell him, I got the better end of the deal. I'm the one who tends to forget dates. I'm the one who forgets to call. I'm the one who always has to figure it out on her own and won't ask how to do things. He's the one who asks for directions.
Today, he's been fixing things. He was so excited, and just exclaimed to me:
"I think I just pulled a hat trick, my darling! First the curtain brackets, then the phone, and now the TV! And I fixed the toilet seat. This should get me laid for a month!"
Did I mention that he can read my mind, too?
*Addendum: he just pulled some glow-in-the-dark plastic stars off the bedroom ceiling. They had been left behind by the previous tenants' kids and we've been meaning to get rid of them for months. He just walked in, tapped on my desk with his screwdriver, and proclaimed: "Six weeks."