There's a new teacher where my husband works. He is athletic, handsome, and still single. All the women teachers have a mild crush on him: he's a dashing sort of guy and he has good manners. I know this: we gave him a lift to school one morning and he held the door open for me. (My husband doesn't hold the door open for me unless I'm sick or carrying something heavy. He knows better.)
On Valentine's Day, this man, Ender, ordered a gigantic bouquet of roses for his girlfriend. All of my husband's female colleagues oohed and ahed over this and made an even bigger fuss over Ender than usual. Such a lovely bouquet -- they only wished their husbands were still so romantic! This irritated my husband. He isn't really a bouquet of roses sort of husband, I'm afraid. He has brought me the odd bunch of flowers over the years, the odd bit of jewelry and box of chocolates, but this isn't really his style.
And honestly, I don't mind one bit. Hana yori dango, as they say in Japanese -- dumplings are better than flowers -- and I'm inclined to agree. Of course, if I could have dumplings and flowers, that would be great, but it would also be asking for too much, which is something my husband seldom gets from me.
"Flowers are okay," my husband ventured, "but wouldn't you rather have a man who can cook?"
My husband, I probably don't need to point out, can cook.
To his surprise, they all disagreed with him. "No! We'd rather have a man who brought us flowers on Valentine's Day!"
"What about a man who can give you a back rub? Or who'll do the dishes when it isn't his turn?"
My husband, I probably don't need to tell you, can do these too, though often not without begging on my part and griping on his.
But the ladies were adamant: they didn't want a man who could cook or do the odd bit of housework or give them a massage, they wanted the flowers. And they gave my poor husband a hard time for admitting that he was the sort of man who didn't think flowers and other traditionally romantic gestures were de riguer in a relationship.
The other day we were out walking when my husband suddenly stopped in his tracks and held his hand out. "Don't anybody move. Do you see that?"
We all looked, but no, we didn't. "See what?" we chorused.
"That!"
He pointed and we looked again -- and saw it. A chameleon. Sitting right there on the trunk of a tree, far too close to the road. We've seen a few of these run over by cars, and our Eldest brought one home back in October, for a week that was all too short. Ever since our last one disappeared, I've been pining for another.
Gently, my husband managed to encourage the chameleon away from the tree and onto his hand. And he gave it to me. It is now sitting with its tail coiled around the Pakistani Night that I've planted on our porch, a beautiful little creature that changes its color from green to camouflage to lime yellow.
So, although I'm sure Ender's fiancee loved her flowers as much as I hope she loves Ender, I'm not envious. I've got a husband who can cook, do the dishes when it isn't his turn, and manage the occasional neck rub.
And he finds me chameleons.
