Who's That Girl?

My husband told me last night, as he lovingly snuggled close to me in bed, that he and “the boys” we discussing “women”.

“What women?” I asked coyly, expecting him to say something about women in general, or at least, women he covets from afar via the internet.

“Oh you know, Shmsandra, Biranda, Lamie, Bunny, Facey etc.” (names thinly veiled to protect the lusted after)

“And what exactly were you discussing about them?” I ask, an edge I don’t recognize creeping into my voice.

“Oh, you know (he says again, as though I were there) Just how hot Shmsandra has gotten lately, her boobs look great, and how funny it is that Joe and I have both been with Biranda, and how all of us have crushes on Lamie oh and Bunny and Facey, how the guys all love them, nothing important.”

And now I’m irritated.

“Shmsandra’s boobs are great because she’s nursing you asshole, and I don’t know what it is about her, Oh and Banana, Bunny and Lamie that you idiots find so appealing, they’re alright but COME ON! They never shut up…yadda yadda….” And I continue to ramble on berating these women, most of whom I acctually like and find entertaining when I get to see them.

Why? Why does it bother me so much when my husband, and also my male friends, get that look of pure joy on their faces when they see those girls, when they can’t stop talking about them for weeks after, trying to plan more events in which to ogle their fantastic nursing boobs. And here I am, sulking, unsure why I’m so upset, unsure why my husband felt that telling me this story was in anyway necessary while I’m lying next to him in our marital bed.

Am I jealous? Probably. I used to be dreadfully jealous, any instance of my high school boyfriend paying more attention to another woman than me resulted in crying jags, locked bathroom doors, and pouting that lasted days. To be fair, he was equally bad, and had often run from a party with tears streaming down his face when I was found sitting on a male friends lap. But I really thought I was past all of this.

I’m a progressive gal, my husband is well aware of my past (that unfortunately includes several of our mutual friends) and I am well aware of his, (which unfortunately includes a several of our mutual friends) We are both huge flirts, with big mouths that love to shock, me usually with words, him usually by running about in the nude, and we are both very comfortable with that (though I can't say I’m as much of a fan of his nudity as he is).

So why is this jealousy thing cropping up again? Why did I feel like punching Steve last night? Why do I never want to invite any of these girls to another party?

I think maybe its less about him, less about the boys, and more about me. While being frightfully insecure about my body, I am also a pathological narcissist; after all, what is blogging if not a world wide ploy for attention, an electronic way of screaming “LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME!” to the entire world?

I want to be the center of not only my husbands, but my friends, universes, is that so much to ask? They are welcome to like, and even date, other women, but when it comes down to it, I need to win. They need to like my cooking best, prefer my couch to sleep on and my boobs to stare at. They need to tell me I’m the coolest, I’m the most fun, and I’m the one they want to make them sandwiches. (which I will complain about doing, but secretly love to do)

I hate those fantasy girls because they aren’t around everyday, cleaning up the vomit, buying the beer, making the witty quips, that keep the boys entertained. They show up in something skimpy, smile, chug a couple beers, in some cases even provide a lap dance, talk about how all other girls suck because they are awesome and totally one of the guys, or about some book they recently read, and the boys are theirs, even the one that’s legally obligated to like me best.

I know that in the end, they come home to me, Steve in particular, I have no question of his love for me, I just want to be the one they think about, the one they are excited to see, the one they can’t stop talking about.

Instead, I am the one that is in the background, with the other wives and girlfriends (Fana, Shmachel, Bari, you know what’s up) quietly cleaning up after them, making snide remarks about loudness and cleavage while being ever present, ever available, and ever enamored by our men, no matter how little they deserve it at times, and how much they deserve it at other times.

I may not be that long lost friend with great boobs, but I am your wife, your friend, your confidant, your Pootie, so just quit talking about the other girls in front of me, keep it to man time, and definitely don’t whisper it in my ear in bed, ass hole.

PAY ATTENTION TO MEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!