Possession is Nine-Tenths of…MINE

To say my husband is possessive is an understatement. It’s like saying the Pacific Ocean is a little deep, or that space is kinda big. My husband is possessive almost to the point of implanting a chip in my neck. Incidentally, I have noticed a lump at the nape of my neck…oh-oh…

Here’s an example:

Last Thursday, we were at WalMart, the hated WalMart, doing some shopping. I had put grocery shopping off so long that we were reduced to eating graham crackers from the last camping trip and brewing sun tea. It was the fact that my beloved Shitzuh was out of her breakfast food that finally got me out the door and on my way to WalMart. But I wasn’t suffering that blasted place alone. I brought the girl and the husband. Yay me!

So there we were, pushing a shopping cart together (really, who does that?) and a WalMart associate walked by. I don’t know, I guess he didn’t make partner yet, his tag said associate. Sheesh, all those WalMart College loans to pay off and the guy’s just an associate? But I’m off the track, as often happens, so let me un-de-rail myself…the guy said hi to me.

And my husband told him I was married. He said to the guy, “She’s married. To me.” Oh. My. God.

Now, there are plenty of clues that I am married. First of all, I’ve got a husband surgically attached to my hip. And if we’re not joined, he’s rejoining us with a touch or a rub or an all out grab of some sort. He’s not afraid of PDA’s. Not in the least. They are a challenge to him. Oh, don’t think I’m complaining. I’ve got no complaints in the my-husband-pays-too-much-attention-to-me department. None. But still, he goes a little overboard in the “She’s with me” department.

And I suppose the next clue would be the ring. It’s not the original, but a larger-size version of what he placed on my finger more than 20 years ago. And I love it. And he loves it because it’s easier for any errant male within a 50 yard radius to tell for sure that I am married. You know, in case the 200 pound testosterone-heavy guerilla attached to me doesn’t clue them in.

So let’s review here: One, we’re attached. Physically. Two, the ring. It makes a statement.

But what I think that most defines me as a married woman is not so much what he does, but more of how I react to his actions. When he bristles with jealousy, I smooth his cheek with kisses and laugh. When he’s sure that someone is paying me too much attention, I make sure he knows he’s the only man in the world for me. When he starts chest pounding and using the word MINE too much, I show him just how much he belongs to me. Take away the PDA’s and the jewelry and I’m still a married woman. It’s written in every fiber of my body. It’s probably tattooed someplace on my body. It’s the scent I give off: Taken. It’s in my DNA.

So I’m a married woman. My husband loves me to the point of obsession and is possessive to the point of propriety. I am his and he is mine.

And frankly that’s the way I like it.

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