I’m just a jealous guy, and I just can’t help it. Despite having been very happily married for 13 years now, with thousands of fantastic memories, I can still get overly jealous. I love the fact that I have a gorgeous wife, and love that other men smile at her, but they need to keep their distance 🙂
Throughout all we’ve been through, there are still some boundaries that I have not crossed. I respect her privacy when it comes to her diary, but not when she’s sitting on the toilet or taking a shower. There’s something magical about seeing my wife half-naked that makes me smile like a little boy – proud to have this awesome woman by my side.
Unfortunately I overstepped a magical boundary by mistake the other day, as I was packing books into moving boxes. An old dusty book, hidden behind boring college books, dropped down and landed on my foot, and some pages fell out. I initially cursed like a sailor, then picked up the fallen book and glanced at the handwritten text. It was my wife’s old diary and I had just read a paragraph about her past … well, it was about an old boyfriend.
If Cecelia Ahern had written a gore version of PS I Love You, I think it would’ve been called Diary of a Serial Killer, and I would happily take the lead role. Listen, if my wife was taken away from me, and had left me her diary to retrace her life, then I would’ve taken the opportunity to erase any past boyfriend she might have had.
Of course, this is not an official threat, but I don’t want to hear or know about her past admirers. It’s totally in the past and should be buried. Again, not literally, in case any past boyfriend reads this post.
There’s only me me me and me. And before me she attended a convent and sang in the hills of Southern Wales, among Stonehenge and sheep. I’m not possessive, am I?