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. I miss the touching, the hugging, the goosebumps from a really good sensual kiss. My husband? Doesn't like to kiss. Sometimes he'll press his lips to the side of my mouth or my cheek. He'll even go so far as to kiss my neck or behind my ear. There's no French kissing in his repertoire. There is lip kissing — but mostly hen-pecking. Three quick pecks: I. Love. You. On lucky days I get extras. On really lucky days, more than just pecks.

So what does any of this have to do with feet?

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

I hate feet. I mean HATE. They're disgusting, smelly, just ew. What do I hate more than feet? Feet touching me. When my ex used to graze my leg with his foot — even accidentally — I would freak out, push away, make a retching sound. I could handle my babies' feet when they were little. Not anymore. Keep them away from me.

And yet here I was, holding feet with my husband. Willingly.

I reminded myself: even if he wasn't in a kissing mood, he had his body wrapped around mine. He holds me like no one ever has — in a way that says he loves me and never wants to let go. Isn't that love too?

I have to keep reminding myself that just because he won't kiss me on the lips — sometimes, okay, frequently — that doesn't mean he doesn't love me. 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 no kissing translates in my brain to: he doesn't want me. He doesn't love me. Rejection. I know that's probably more of a me problem than a him problem — I just wish he could explain it better. All I ever get is "I just don't want to," and I'm over here asking but why? He says he doesn't have a reason. I know there's always a reason for what we do or don't do — even if we can't name it yet.

So I told him: 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 willingly touch his. He laughed. Then I asked him how he knows I'm the love of his life.

He just said, "I just know."

I pushed for specifics — like I always do. He couldn't or wouldn't give me any. I often feel like I pour my whole soul out and get barely anything back. But then he finally said: "Why do you think I've been with you this long?"

I smiled. "So you married me because I'm the love of your life?"

He nodded. Yes.

That satisfied me — at least a little. Because when I met him, he was a confirmed bachelor in his thirties. Told me early on he never wanted to get married. I asked him last night if he would have married anyone else if he hadn't met me.

His answer was a definite no.

I'll take that.