Love Means Never Having To Wear Pants

Risky Business
Risky Business

Some people say that being in love means never having to say you’re sorry. I think that being in Love will mean never having to wear pants.



When I get married, sitting around or cooking or playing with my dog pants-less will probably be my favorite part of the day. We will have a mandatory “no pants at home” rule. 

How does my husband feel about this? It is one of his favorite parts of the day, too, because this is one of the prerequisites for marrying me. I have a very specific set of desired attributes for my future husband.

  • As previously mentioned, my future husband does not wear pants at home. This might seem like a setup for more sex (I mean, duh, obviously not having to worry about taking pants off to have sex is a possibility and a perk), but really it’s because no one likes wearing pants. Pants do nothing but restrict and confine-—and since we live in America, we love Freedom. Not wearing pants around me means that my future husband trusts me enough to not kick him in the crotch, cut his penis off with a cooking knife, or set his underwear on fire in the kitchen. Trust is important in a marriage. When are we often most vulnerable? When we’re naked. Not wearing pants is kind of like that, only with more clothes.
  • My future husband not only lets me take selfies of us, he also initiates and takes selfies himself. I expect nothing less than selfies in front of monuments, at sporting events, on airplanes, in cars, legitimately any and everywhere. Taking selfies with a person is one of the truest forms of flattery because no self-taken picture has ever turned out to be a good photo—selfies show that you care more about what’s on the inside. My future husband cares so little about physical appearance that he might even prefer selfies to regular photos for their inevitable double chins, awkward angles, and weird lighting.
  • My future husband does not make fun of my cat obsession. In fact, he loves my cats. He won’t try to prevent me from holding our cats, even though he knows I’m allergic—he knows that my love of this cuddly animal trumps a runny nose and itchy eyes any day and that there is no use in trying to stop me. He encourages me to adopt any and every stray cat that might wander into our yard. My future husband understands that in order to fully love me, he must also love my cats because we are a package deal. We go through more of Mucinex than the average family, but he’s okay with it.
  • My future husband appreciates my sometimes-terrible music taste. He understands that while I do have impeccable music taste—I love some Electric Light Orchestra, the Avett Brothers, and Justin Timberlake—there are days that I just want—Nay, NEED—to listen to some shitty, tacky music. He knows that this music can and will include artists such as Fergie, Big Sean, Ke$ha, and One Direction, and songs such as “Chain Hang Low,” “Grillz,” and “Promiscuous”. My future husband is not only not bothered by this, but he sings along with me; he does not make me feel ashamed for my terrible music decisions on the way to dinner—he chooses turns the radio to an “80s, 90s, and Now!” Station so that we can listen to questionable music from every decade. He encourages High School Musical duets in the car and in the kitchen. My future even takes the time to practice these duets with me when necessary (choreography included), because only practice makes the perfect Gabriella and Troy.
  • My future husband does not, under any circumstances, make me watch or attend sports that I do not care about. For this marriage to work, he understands that there must be two separate spheres for sports in our house: those that aren’t stupid, and the extra ones that he is somehow still interested in. He knows that soccer and college basketball fall into the former, while the NBA, NFL, and NASCAR fall into the latter. He won’t be offended when I walk into the room only to find NASCAR on television, and respond with either rage that driving around in circles for two hours is considered a sport, or annoyance that my sweet, intelligent husband finds this type of torture entertaining. He also doesn’t mind that, rather than leave the room when Peyton Manning is tossing goal points, I sit beside him and read.
  • My future husband is hilarious and thinks I am hilarious. Pretending is not enough on this one. It is essential to the success of our future marriage that my future husband finds me as funny as I find myself. He laughs at all of my jokes and he laughs at me laughing at my own jokes—he also laughs at his own jokes. My future husband doesn’t see my self-deprecating humor as a cry for help or my jokes made at his expense as mean or ill spirited. He understands that my puns are stupid and he laughs because stupidity is funny. He laughs because he knows it will inflate my ego. He also makes jokes at my expense and never lets me forget the stupid things I say and do. Humor goes both ways—if someone isn’t making fun of you, then they don’t really love you.

My requirements, I have been told, are too lofty. My parents have made this all too clear. So has every boyfriend I have had up to this point. I think that this may stem from the inspiration of the desired attributes: Jimmy Fallon himself. While the real Jimmy Fallon is certainly not out of my league, he is taken—-but I can’t help but believe that my Jimmy is out there somewhere, sitting at home, listening to “Grillz,” taking pantless selfies. TC mark

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