The other day I brought a few of my co-workers into my apartment to gather supplies for the Day of Mandatory Fun (TM) that inevitably falls within Resident Assistant Training (RAT).  Said co-workers had seen Peter once before, quickly, from a distance.  On that Saturday, however, I guess they got a good look at him and talked to him briefly.  Later that day, the following exchange occurred,

“Wow, Adrienne.  Your husband is a cutie.”
“Yeah.  He’ll do.”
“No, really.”
“Yeah.  I’ll keep him around.”
“Seriously.  He is a hottie.  Like, he could be a model in a magazine.”
*silence*

Actually, the “silence” part isn’t quite accurate.  I was making that wheezing sound one makes when one is laughing so hard that they are not really making any sound.  And I sort of made a thudding noise when I fell off my chair, onto the ground, and pounded my fist with deep, guttural laughter.

My other co-worker chimed in, “I don’t know why you are laughing.  He really is a hottie.”

I laughed some more.

When I had regained my composure, prone only to a fit of giggling every few seconds and better able to breathe I said, “I guess when you listen to enough stories that start, ‘This one time, during a D&D campaign . . .’ you kind of forget the traditional meaning of ‘hottie.’” They rolled their eyes, as I clearly have no idea that I am dating a supermodel.

Heh.  Even now, the idea makes me laugh. 

Now, this is not to say that I think Peter is unattractive.  To the contrary.  However, a supermodel?  I mean, I guess I could see it, if Peter would stop using hand soap on his face and start some sort of Swedish pore regimen.  Or perhaps style his hair in a manner other than in a Wolverine/Tom Baker’s-Dr. Who homage-coif.  But he wouldn’t do that.  Because he would cease to be himself.  And then I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.

So, anyway, today Peter had to eat in the cafeteria (using the meal plan that my employment affords him).  The cafeteria shared by about 600 residential students.  Forty of whom are men.  He went to get ice cream and as he explains it, he was trying to “bleed the soft-serve drippings before committing to the ice cream to the cone.” An undergraduate woman comes up to him and says, “Oh hi!  You know, the middle one lets you have vanilla and chocolate ice cream together.” Peter answers, “Ah yes, I was bleeding the ice cream . . .” She cheerfully introduced herself and said, “So, are you a freshman, sophomore, junior . .” Again, as Peter tells is, “So, I was thinking.  There is no good answer to this question.  I was going to tell her I was out of college, but I couldn’t even remember what year I actually did graduate.  [It was 1998, for the record.] So I just got it out quickly.  ‘Yeah,’ I said ‘I’m married to the RD.’ And the girl just looked so crestfallen.  I knew it would end badly.”

It took me awhile to stop laughing after that too.

The moral of this story is, Peter now lives in a place with mostly women.  Younger women.  Younger women who think he is an undergraduate.  An undergraduate hottie. 

I don’t know how I’m going to handle this.  I’m married to the campus heartthrob. 

“Oh GOOD GRIEF.  I never thought I looked that good,” Peter said, as I read that line aloud.

Good grief indeed.