Whenever someone asks me, “How did you know you were ready to have kids?”
I always respond with,
“We simply had WAY too much disposable income and free time.”
While we’ve never actually had any spare money, the part about free time isn’t exactly a lie.
Owen used to have a seasonal job. And the off season was kind of rough. I was a waitress, at a crappy restaurant. The kind where old people would leave a $2 tip, and expect you to cry with gratitude. (I cried, alright. But not with gratitude.) We lived in a sad little apartment, with two borrowed chairs for furniture. The two channels we could pull in with rabbit ears could only amuse us for so long. I always had a pile of magazines around, back issues friends would pass on when they were done with them. And Owen got so bored, he started dipping into the pile.
Was he picking up tips on how to please his man in bed? Was he keeping up with the comings and goings of Hollywood glitterati? Or was he “enjoying” the supermodels?
Turns out it was the last one.
But it wasn’t what you think.
He drew on them. It started with beards and moustaches, progressed to speech balloons detailing the dirty, dirty things those girls, apparently, would do. In the end, he was doing their makeup. Giving them more eyeliner, arching their brows, shading in the blush on their cheeks.
And, like a drug addict who can’t reach the initial high, even drawing makeup on paper supermodels wasn’t enough.
He wanted a live model.
I let him.
When he was finished, I looked in a mirror.
(Image is “Drag Queen” by photochiel)
I wasn’t sure if my future husband wanted me to look like a $10 ho. Or a not-particularly-fetching ladyboy.
Either way, we found other things to do.