Handsome husband's identity crisis

So he grew up a townie, but a very small town, so small that in his back yard there was only a wee tiny hobby farm with chickens between his house and the flood plain. On the other side of the house was the feed mill. For his parents, who grew up in England, London and Cambridge, this was the sticks. Then they met me.

I fell hard for this cute fella at 16. By 20 and 22 we was all married up and ventured off the huge city of Oakville (Haha) where I had anxiety fits about riding the public transit to school. I'd been on a city bus twice, I think. He had to put up with me longingly staring out the window at the scuzzy parking lot and sighing.

He's had almost twenty years of hanging around at the farm I grew up on. He kinda likes it. If he gets summoned on his cell phone he can say things like, "Oh, sorry man, I'm out at the farm, I can't go into Toronto and do a session. Nope. In fact I'm knee deep in horse shit right now so I for sure can't drive in for a session. Gotta go."

I guess it's not really much of a crisis. Deep down he's a hick too.

* a note on the use of the sh word. I don't want to cuss my face off here, although I do love to swear heartily when the time is absolutely right, but we have a rule that you can say shit if you're standing in it. More on swearing later!!!