Your Hair is Like a Flock of Goats

Okay, I was really immature in Sunday School this morning. Our class tends to be a little less than serious; it's made up of 9 couples in their late twenties/early thirties whose main interests are poker, reality television, and food. We have class with the door shut in case someone swears, and we live for the church Krispy Kremes.
We are currently doing a relationship study in which we are supposed to "review different aspects of our marriages" each week. This week it was called "Where Has the Romance Gone?" Each week it inevitably turns into that episode of the Newlywed Game where somebody smacks their spouse with a placard. The women turn on the men and there's a lot of "I told you that wasn't just me!" and "See!!" going on. It's really a lot of fun. Really, it is.
So, this week the person leading the lesson told Mike to read from Song of Songs 4:1-7. Mike, being the obedient student, immediately launched into reading. I, subsequently, lost it and nearly fell out of my chair. A few samples of the words that came from Mike's mouth:

• How beautiful you are, my love, how very beautiful!
• Your hair is like a flock of goats!
• Your teeth are like a flock of shorn ewes that have come up from the washing
• Your two breasts are like two fawns, twins of a gazelle, that feed among the lilies

I was okay with with how beautiful I was, but as soon as he said that my hair was like a flock of goats, the game was over. The word goats in any context is hilarious to me because I get a dumb goat image in my mind, but when comparing my hair to a flock of goats, I really had a good time. Who knew church could be so funny?

*******************

Follow up. Mike and I thought we did pretty well as compared to the rest of the class. See, we never had much romance to begin with (when you meet because you're both outraged at the lack of Bud Light at the bar your options are limited), so we haven't had anywhere to go but up!

We practiced tonight at dinner. We clinked glasses before we ate. Well, we bumped my glass of box wine against his koozie of Bud Light. Then we proceeded to eat homemade wings with our fingers. The baked wings were an experiment on my part and while tasty, not very filling. So we made a bowl of popcorn. Then, with Gus panting desperately for a morsel of popcorn, we told each other where we still had wing sauce on our faces. THAT is romance, my friends.