Tonight, my wife made me watch … The Notebook. Yes, made me.
I am recovering from foot surgery and not very mobile. So, I’m propped up in a chair wincing occasionally while she whirlwinds around me taking care of our life. She’s busy taking down and putting away Christmas decorations, doing the dishes, washing and folding laundry, feeding our cats, tidying up, taking out the trash, etc.
She plops down on the couch every now and then to watch. The fact that she is working so damn hard and I can help so little seals my lips against any protest to her movie choice.
I would rather wash my car, at night, in freezing temperatures, than watch the quintessential chick flick, The Notebook. I’m not a huge fan of chick flicks. Big surprise, I know.
But, she’s working her ass off taking care of me and all of our business. And, if your wife says you are watching a certain movie, then you will watch it. So, I am watching. My wife, on the other hand, doesn’t really watch. Too busy.
Late in the movie, but not the end, I start to cry. Yup. I’m watching a chick flick and I am a chick starting to cry. I don’t try to hide it. Then the movie ends and I cry more. A lot more. My wife has come back for the end, so we sit there together – me balling and she tearing up. She looks at me and we start to giggle.
Big ol’ Butch balling her eyes out. We laugh and she says, “I guess you have your next post.” I reply, “But that means I have to out myself?” Yeah.
It’s Butch to watch chick flicks if your wife tells you to, even if that means you get a good cry. Be Butch.