Manly mercredi.

About a month ago, Stupid Stork came up with a brilliant idea: for each of us to share a little more about the man behind the sperm count. Her suggestion was for a series of posts to be published the first day of the week; hence, Manly Monday. I'm a bit late to the game, both with respect to getting started with my revelations on Gilles and to day of the week, but the spirit (and the alliteration) remains the same.

What should you know about my dear husband? Well, what do you already know? Let's see ....

• That the side of his head is extraordinarily handsome.
• That the ladies, especially those of the bovine variety, love him.
• That he is full of hope, strength, and sweet surprises.
• That if you're going to get lost, he's the right person to do it with.
• That he has a traveling heart and a sweet, sweet tooth.

But that's not all; oh, no. There is also this:

• He has one hot body. Like, super hot. (See: cycling; see also: bounding up mountains.) And I mean that objectively as well. Getting into bed with him is like getting into bed with a roasted brick, a very big one. Even in the dead of winter, we sleep with the windows open and the covers kicked partially off. As someone who tends to run cold, I appreciate this very much. Him? Less so, especially when I warm my iceblock feet against his back.
• His principles about environmental issues, including agriculture-related ones, are very strong and deeply held. He likes to eat seasonally, locally, and directly from the farm if possible so he can be assured that the workers were treated equitably and that the produce is free of pesticides and other chemicals (hence our weekly paniers). Our first real disagreement was over a carton of early-season Spanish strawberries that I pounced on in a supermarket during my first spring in this country. To me, they were just strawberries, readily available and cheaply priced; to him, they were a symbol of unwise use of water resources, exploitation of foreign workers, and over-use of chemical products, and besides, Swiss strawberries would be available when the local season was right. Being with him has raised my consciousness of these issues, and although I can't say I always resist the temptation to buy out-of-region or out-of-season fruit and veggies, I'm certainly a much more thoughtful consumer than before.
• He has no hair. Well, that's a bit of an exaggeration. He would have some hair, around the sides, but he shaves it with a straight-razor to match what's on top: nothing. I love it. Just after it's razored, it's rough and stubbly; by the third day, soft little prickes are pushing through; and during the days that follow, it gradually becomes fuzzier and fuzzier and fuzzier until the time comes to bring out the razor and begin the cycle all over again. It's a constantly revolving treat of textures! Every time I hear some kind of criticism or joke about bald guys, I smile smugly to myself, sure of my little secret: that bald is best.

Gilles as a gingerbread. couldn't you just eat him up?