Love, Ego and the Joggle

My husband is your basic Alpha Male. He insists on facing the door when we dine out in case trouble walks in. He’s trained and licensed to carry a baton and always has it on hand to fend off would-be carjackers and thugs. He lifts weights and carries all the heavy stuff and he teaches his daughters how to wrassle and throw punches. Typically, his ego is as big as the Hindenburg. It’s also as fragile.

Yesterday in the kitchen when he leaned over to kiss me, I gave him what I’ll call a belly joggle. That’s when you slap a belly back and forth quickly with your hand, before your victim knows what’s hit him.

This belly joggle was not unprovoked- It actually was retaliation for his continual boob joggles. In Alpha Male fashion, he constantly slaps my boobs whenever he thinks no one’s looking. He thinks it’s funny. I think it’s annoying. I thought the belly joggle would illustrate my point.

“Hey! What was that?!” he said incredulously.

“A belly joggle,” I replied.

The Hindenburg began rising off the ground. “Well, there’s no joggle in my belly,” he said.

“Yes there is. I felt joggle.”

“No there isn’t. Do it again.” Obligingly, he lifted his shirt and flexed his abs as hard as he could.

I slapped. And there it was. Only a slight joggle, but a joggle nonetheless. The Hindenburg burst into flames.

“Everyone has a little joggle,” I said, feeling guilty. I knew about his Achilles ego, and didn’t want to take advantage. “Only gym rats who work out, like, seven days a week don’t have belly joggle.”

He was silent. He laughed weakly, but the damage was done.

That afternoon as he was changing clothes, the joggle reared its ugly head.

“I think my stomach is bigger lately,” he said. “I feel bloated today.”

“You don’t look bloated,” I said.

“Oh, I think I do.”

I winced. I knew his insecurity was all my fault. Me and my stupid joggle.

But last night was the kicker. At Baskin-Robbins, my King of Ice Cream…. went without. Yes, ladies and, well, ladies, a seemingly minor joggle can cause an Alpha Male to make the ultimate sacrifice, giving up two scoops of quarterback crunch nestled inside a slightly stale waffle cone. I briefly burned with shame. Then I quenched it with a scoop of peanut butter chocolate.

This morning, he got me back, joggling my own belly right when I woke up. It felt awful.

“Hey!” I shouted crankily. “You can’t retaliate over a retaliatory joggle!”

“I felt your belly joggle!” he said gleefully, ignoring me and moving quickly away before experiencing retaliation for a retaliatory retaliatory joggle. “Yeah, well I’m not denying it,” I bluffed. “I’m proud of my joggle!”

Now that he’s confirmed my joggle, he seems to feel much better about his own. And I guess that’s what a lasting relationship is all about. Loving each other despite our joggles. But seriously, that boob slapping’s got to stop.