Apparently my days of marital bliss are numbered.
Yesterday I jokingly asked Charles if he regretted the constraints of matrimony/monogamy/prison because he will never know the jubilation of succumbing to a different woman’s ample breasts or of dry humping a foxy redhead. Ever.
To which he replied, in all seriousness, “Are you saying you want to start swinging?”
Whoa, cowboy. That’s like saying, We’re out of milk so let’s buy a dairy farm.
I rephrased my question: “I was just wondering if you ever thought about how you’ll never make out with anyone else but me for the rest of your life. That could be, like, another 70 years.”
“I don’t think we’ll live to be 100.”
“That’s not the point.”
“More like 75. Maybe 90 for you. If I start to go downhill I’m serious, I’m getting a gun and taking a long walk in the woods.”
“For frick sake, Charles, the topic is not euthanasia. It’s monogamy!”
Then he said the sweetest thing—that he took his vows very seriously, blah blah, and that he is happy to make out only with me for the rest of our lives. Unless...
“Unless they can clone my hair and I can regrow a full head of hair and have a long ponytail and then I’ll get a sports car and find myself a young trophy wife and divorce you.”
I'm warming to his long solitary walk in the woods idea.
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