Would You Still Love Me?

Alex and I have some of our best conversations in the mornings while laying in bed after sleeping in on the weekends or during the summer.

This morning, after waking up to Nesta barking rudely to be let outside, we were cuddling and he was trying to make a not-so-smooth move, if you know what I mean. No sense elaborating on Alex's tendency toward humping my leg like a dog, aggressively grabbing at my boobs, or breathing his morning dead-squirrel-breath in my face; it would only embarass him.

"Would you still love me if we found out, after not being able to get pregnant, that I was actually an intersex person? Like, if I had testes. Would you still want to be with me?" I asked, curious about his response.

"Um, well, I'm not gay." Duh, I figured this whole leg-humping-boob-grabbing thing meant you were straight. And if sexuality is a continuum, you might even be at the straight and narrow end of the scale. "But yeah, I'd still love you. I just wouldn't necessarily want to be doing this with you. Although, I guess it would all depend whether the news changed anything. Like, if you all of a sudden decided you wanted to be a dude. Then maybe I would love you and want to be involved. But not like this." Further leg-humping ensues.

"Okay, so let's say I have testes, but I don't want to be a guy. Then would you still love me?"

"Yeah, sure."

A few minutes pass. I check my iPhone, play a few round of Words With Friends, disappointed with my lack of good letters. I role back over, frowning, with my lower lip protruding a bit.

"I'm mad at you. I can't believe you wouldn't still love me if I wanted to be a dude."

"Mmm hmm. I'm sorry," he says, bored at the game already. And I'm just getting started.

"How about if I had a brain injury. Would you still love me then?"

"Yes, definitely."

"I wouldn't. I don't think I'd want to be with you if you'd had a bad TBI. I'd still be around, and help take care of you, and love you and stuff, but I wouldn't want to necessarily be your wife."

"Well that's not very reassuring."

"How about if I had trichophagia, would you still love me?"

"Depends. I don't know what that is," he responds, skeptical.

"It's where I eat my own hair."

"Yeah, I'd still love you. But I'd shave your head. And mine. And we could only own a hairless dog."

"What would we tell people? Why would they think we're bald?"

"It would be a problem, too, because of my body hair. I wouldn't want you to feel compelled to eat that, too. And what about our kids? Are you going to eat their hair? I guess I would shave everything. On Sundays. And we would tell people that we're really devoted to people with cancer. Most people would find that sympathetic."

"What about if I had a small brain tumor, one that made me bark like a dog or chirp like a bird? You know, like that annoying girl we saw at the beach the other day."

"I would remove the tumor. With my pocket knife."

"What if it was one of those tumors with fingers, not just one that was circular?"

"I'd get a scalpel. You know, from the hobby shop. First I'd Google the brain, so I knew where to perform the surgery."

I laugh hysterically. He's a creative problem solver, that guy.

"Would you still love me if I was a burn victim?"

"I'd just wrap you in gauze and call you my Mummy Bitch."

He's funny, really funny.

"How about if I lost both my legs in a fight with a grizzly bear?"

"I would wheel you around on a skateboard."

I like this one. Then I could go everywhere with him and we could recount my survival story to everyone who seemed interested. Maybe I could even get on that Discovery Channel show about "I shouldn't be alive."

"What about if I couldn't talk or write or type at all, would you still love me then?"

"I'd be really sad. And I'd miss you. I love talking to you. It's one of the things I love most about you," he says sweetly, kissing my forehead and wrapping me in his arms. "Please don't ever get sick or lose your legs or die. I would miss you too much because you're my best friend, and I can't be without you."

He's witty. He's sweet. And he'd love me. Even if I ate my hair, barked like a dog, lost language, or was injured in an accident. He would love me. And for that, I am grateful.