|Shirt: BCBG; Vest and Skirt: Splendid; Boots: Steve Madden; Belt: Nordstroms BP|
Before Husband walked out the door this morning to go to work, he gave me one of those free hugs he's so good at, and explicitly reminded me whose legs those belonged to with one simple word, "Mine."
"Mine" in its possessive form conjures up repressed thoughts of being four and unwilling to share any of my stickers with my friends at my birthday party. My Dad has me on home video throwing the biggest tantrum of my life because I thought those ballerina bear stickers were all mine! (Hey, it's my party and I can cry if I want to.) It also conjures up memories of when I was thirteen and would alwaysMine is a word we use when we want to stake claim over something. I guess that's what Husband meant this morning when he verbally staked his claim over me. He's unwilling to share me with anyone else. Because I belong to him. He belongs to me. And together we share a life.
steal borrow the clothes out of my older sister's closet without ever asking. This always resorted to some sort of argument where she would yell something like, "These clothes are MINE! Do not touch. Do not look. Don't even breathe in my closet."
So maybe, I'll start to assert that phrase more while Hubby and I are walking down the street holding hands. I'll be the crazy girl screaming, "Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine." to every person that walks by. Just like those darn seagulls in Finding Nemo. But, it's not out of posession. It's because I am proud.