At the risk of becoming a bit too familiar, I want to talk about Hubby for a moment. He walked into the room the other night and in his best Joey Tribbiani voice (“How YOU doin’?”) said, “You look GOOD.” and gave me a little wink.

Let me tell you what I was wearing. Jean capris, cardigan and total mom shoes…comfortable and chunky with a good, squishy sole. The only way I could have looked LESS good, was to travel back in time and have Grandma give me another Ogilvie home perm. But he meant it, bless his heart.

In summing up all the reasons I love him, I would be remiss if I failed to mention the following traits;

1) His celebrity crush is still Sigourney Weaver and not Megan Fox.
2) His favorite part of a woman’s body is a small, poochy tummy.
3) He never really “clicked” with soft-spoken women.

Clearly, I am his ideal mate. Every time he says, “You know, I really don’t care for six-pack abs on women” it is clear that we were meant to be together. “Yup,” I’ll tell him, “that’s why I don’t do sit-ups…and you’re welcome.”

I can’t tell you the relief in living with a man who keeps the bar low. This morning I staggered out of bed, trying to will my body to action. “Hello, gorgeous!” he chirped without one whit of irony. I was NOT gorgeous. My hair, due to the ongoing quest to discover my natural color, is over processed to the point of falling out and thus stuck straight up, my face was criss-crossed with creases from sleeping face-to-mattress and, like a new-born kitten, I was physically incapable of opening my eyes, preferring to navigate by bumping off furniture, pin-ball style. I couldn’t even return his hug, so busy was I attempting to formulate words. “Glerg…plorp…”

He makes it easy to hold to my pro-aging stance. He hasn’t said one negative thing about the gray hair, my saggy knees or veiny hands. Of course, his eyesight isn’t what it once was, but I’m preferring to believe that it’s love that blinds him to my encroaching decrepitude and not his stubborn refusal to wear reading glasses in public.

I absolutely know how lucky I am. In a society that worships-not even youth, but some weird, plastic characature of youth-I am grateful that I had the good sense to marry a man who values the content of my heart and not the perkiness of my chest. Because if that were the case, we’d both be flat out of luck. (Ha! …”flat.”)

For my part, I like to think that I return the favor, growing ever more appreciative of the man he has become. Sure, his back tends to go out every once in a while, his naturally sunny disposition has led to some serious smile lines around the eyes (LOVE them!) and perhaps his hair isn’t quite as thick as it once was, but he is loyal, intelligent, loving and absolutely the number one person I can depend on. All in all, there isn’t one thing I would change….

…except for his old-timey, wild-west prospector eyebrows. That craziness just has to GO!

The Rise & Fall of a Momocracy

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