The Pack Mule is the man a wife takes shopping with him to carry bags and nothing more. She might permit him to voice an opinion on an outfit or two, bit it's for his benefit, not hers. She's picked one specific outfit to let him see to confirm an already-made decision. His opinion doesn't really matter. [...]
A man who despises shopping with his wife is a Pack Mule whereas a man who desires shopping with his wife is a Husband. And believe it or not, he doesn't get to pick his role; it is placed on him by his wife.
Ultimately, the breasts are for babies, and they do this wonderful plumping like Ball Park franks when they do their work. And as they do, their beauty expands accordingly. Yet this is not the narrow scope of sex appeal, per se. [...]
Whether full of sharp angles, supple curves, or some combination of the two, the woman's body is the literal personification of beauty. Why wouldn't men be drawn to such a wonder? What doesn't make sense to me is the appeal of the male body. We're all awkward shapes, hairy parts, and dangling members. [...]
The default pattern of shopping, for some reason, involves the man assuming the mantle of Pack Mule while the wife does her business. If you're not going to go that route, you've got to deliberately choose to do otherwise. The Husband experience has to be a mutual decision. That means: talking about it. [...]
My wife is gorgeous to me. Like, really gorgeous. Every dip, curve, and contour screams, "I am woman; be enthralled!" But there is one state that magnifies all that feminine intensity to epic proportions: pregnancy. [...]