The Language of Feet

Last night, while cuddling in bed, I got upset with my husband because he didn’t want to kiss me on the lips.

I love kissing. I miss the days of making out like a teenager — or a college student — when touching and kissing felt electric. I miss the goosebumps that came from a slow, sensual kiss.

My husband? He doesn’t like to kiss.
Sometimes he’ll press his lips to the side of my mouth or my cheek. Occasionally, he’ll kiss my neck or behind my ear. There’s no French kissing in his repertoire. There is lip kissing, but mostly the quick, rhythmic kind — three short pecks, like punctuation: “I. Love. You.” On lucky days, I get extras. On really lucky days, there’s more than just pecks.

So, what does this have to do with feet?

As I was starting to feel sorry for myself — eyes welling up — I realized his legs were entwined with mine and our feet were touching. Almost like holding hands… but with feet.

And here’s the thing: I hate feet.
I mean HATE. They’re smelly, weird, just… ew. The only thing worse than feet is feet touching me. When my ex used to graze my leg with his foot, even by accident, I’d recoil and make a retching sound. I could handle my babies’ feet when they were little, but not anymore — keep them away from me.

Yet here I was, holding feet with my husband.

In that moment, I reminded myself: even if he wasn’t in a kissing mood, he still had his body wrapped around mine. He was holding me close — the kind of hold that says, “I love you, and I never want to let you go.” Isn’t that love, too?

I have to remind myself that just because he doesn’t always want to kiss me doesn’t mean he doesn’t love me. He shows his love in other ways. He’s not rejecting me; he’s just uncomfortable with something I happen to crave. Do I understand it? No.

To me, kissing means wanting. Loving. So when he doesn’t want to kiss, my heart translates that as: He doesn’t want me. He doesn’t love me. Rejection.

It’s probably more of a me problem than a him problem — but I still wish he could explain it better. All I ever hear is, “I just don’t want to,” and I’m over here asking, “But why?” When I push, he insists there’s no reason. I know there’s always a reason for what we do or don’t do — even if we can’t name it yet. I wish he could, or that he’d at least reassure me.

I told him last night that one of the ways I know he’s the love of my life is because I let him touch me with his feet — that I even willingly touch his. He laughed, and I asked him how he knows I’m the love of his life. He just said, “I just know.”

I pressed for specifics — the way I always do. He couldn’t (or wouldn’t) give me any. Maybe he could tell I was getting frustrated, because finally he said, “Why do you think I’ve been with you this long, then?”

I smiled. “So you married me because I’m the love of your life?”
He nodded. “Yes.”

And that satisfied me — at least a little — because when I met him, he was a confirmed bachelor in his thirties, the kind of man who swore he’d never get married.

I asked him, “Would you have married anyone else if you hadn’t met me?”
He didn’t hesitate. “No.”

I’ll take that as his answer.
That’s how he knows.