he's big, he's understated, and he's probably a caveman . . .
just imagine, you're out hiking w your lame-ass metro boyfriend . . . he's complaining about how the chick at the salon fucked up the waxing of his eyebrows, and how he needs another botox shot. ("But hey, did you notice how haggard Ted's looking these days? he really needs to go to a spa or something, hon") You, on the other hand, have tuned the loser out and are wondering if it's too late to have the big family you always wanted, and how you never thought your life would turn out like this.
and then you stop to tie a lace on your hiking boot, and mr. full of himself keeps going on and on and doesn't even notice you've dropped behind. as his voice fades away, you become aware of the sounds of the forests, and then suddenly you have a strong feeling that you're being watched . . . you quickly turn around, and you think you spot kind brown eyes in the foliage, but just as soon as you see them they disappear. You catch up w mr. windbag, who hasn't even noticed you were missing. He doesn't miss a beat . . . and you just feel sad, really, really sad.
That night you dream about those brown eyes . . . in fact, you dream that you're Belle, and that the eyes belong to the Beast. The next morning you wake up and find yourself staring at the plucked travesties that are your significant other's eyebrows. Irked beyond belief, you dash out of the tent half-clad (or au naturel . . . it's your fantasy). You decide to go for a dip in the pond, and as soon as you get in the water you once again feel you're being watched. suddenly the water is cold, and a shiver runs up your spine. you look down and see your image shattering into a million pieces in the rippling water. You get out in a hurry, and that's when it happens. Someone scoops you up, throws you over his shoulder and dashes away. You realize it's the being w the kind brown eyes. part of you wants to scream, but then you think about those ghastly eyebrows in the tent, and your obese boss who keeps pawing at you. and you're like Fuck it . . . I'm just going to go with the flow.
Next thing you know, seven years have flown by, and you've had six kids w a real man . . . someone who's not interested in sharing his feelings in some abstract mind-numbing way . . . someone who makes you feel what he's feeling . . . a ravishing lover, if you will. He's the strong, silent type, and he doesn't have a collection of "how to satisfy a woman orally" DVDs, but he just knows what to do . . . instinctively. and he's a great provider . . . in fact, you've grown to love elk.
