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So apparently I’m married to a rock icon now.

Not just a drummer. Not just my slightly feral, caffeine-powered, occasionally unhinged husband. No. Johnny is currently splashed across the cover of Rolling Clone Magazine.



I walk into the hotel room this morning and what do I see? Johnny standing shirtless in front of the mirror, (nothing new) holding the magazine up next to his face like he’s comparing jawlines.

Don’t get me wrong, he looks stupidly good. The kind of good that makes strangers at the coffee shop whisper and point. Hair perfect. Eyes intense. That ‘I hit things for a living’ expression. Very dramatic. Very Johnny.

But the ego? Oh, the ego has entered the chat.

He’s been casually “forgetting” the magazine on every available surface. Bathroom counter. Snack table. Dashboard. At one point, he tried to prop it up next to my face in bed like I needed a reminder of who I married.

As if I could forget.

Every five minutes it’s:
“They called me the hottest thing in music right now.”
“They said my playing was ‘savage.’”
“Babe, read this part again where they talk about my hands.”

Sir. I LIVE with your hands. I know everything I need to know.

And yet… as much as I mock him, I see it. I see how much this means to him. The kid who used to drum on broken furniture is now on the cover of a rock magazine. That’s not nothing. That’s years of sweat, busted knuckles, trashed vans, and dreams that refused to die.

So yeah. His ego is loud right now. It’s doing backflips. It’s requesting theme music when he enters a room.

But underneath all that bravado, he still looks at me the same way. Still reaches for my hand when he thinks no one’s watching. Still asks, quietly, “Did I really do okay?”

And that’s my favorite version of him.

Rock star on the cover.
Goofball in my arms.
Ego the size of a stage rig.

Wouldn’t trade him for anything.

Even if I do hide the magazine tomorrow.

-Nessa