So I tried to get a little countdown timer thingy to work on the side of this blog, but apparently I am just that technologically challenged. (I am stubborn and may try again.)
The point of the timer was to count down to my 30th birthday. I'm still not entirely sure how big a deal I think entering this new decade of life should be, and I waver back and forth between the, "Whatever, I'm already married w/ a mortgage living far from everyone I know. I'm already dead." and the less melodramatic yet equally absurd, "Whoah..." a la Mr. Ted Theodore Logan. But more on all of that in some other post.
Knowing that this day is quickly approaching I thought it only right and fitting that I get a new party dress for the occasion. I am, after all, a girl. So I found the dress, and I wavered between which size to get, because a) it's a sheath dress, and they are not always very nice to my body type, and b) I recently lost 10 lbs. sort of by accident and I wasn't sure where I'd fall. (Emotional trauma can apparently turn off my stomach completely. I do not recommend that diet. But more on that Excremental Excuse for a Human Being another time.) Of course I was shopping online and wasn't about to buy 2 sizes and return one because that is a PAIN and so instead I gambled on the smaller size. And won! I felt fabulous. I was over-the-moon happy, twirling around my apartment, planning shoes and accessories, and when my husband got home I told him about the dress and the tinier me and how happy I was and how really I am going to somehow stay this size this time (I go thru this every few years) and all he has to say is, "I can't really tell the difference."
Insert Screeching Halt noise here.
"Ten pounds. How can you not notice TEN pounds?!" I say in disbelief.
"I dunno. You're always pretty to me." he says completely bald-faced and unconcerned.
Ugh. You just can't get mad at that. But I tried.
"It's sweet that you tell me I'm pretty when I first wake up and have bed-head and zit cream splotches (so much for turning 30) but you have GOT to notice the difference between that and when I have shaved my legs and styled my hair and artfully applied mascara without stabbing myself in the eye and plucking stray hairs that I do not have and all that other crap girls do that guys aren't supposed to know about!"
"Sorry." And he shrugs.
So I sigh and kiss him and tell him I love him and that I'm going to remind him of this when we're old and I'm too blind to tweeze properly and my ass is twice as big as he remembers it ever being. And I remember the framed picture that his grandmother had hanging in her bathroom, a gift from her husband. It had a drawing of a frowzy woman, and it said something like, "Love is when he tells you you're beautiful first thing in the morning."
He may not be a Man's Man. He may not notice when a guy is giving me trouble at a bar and instantly rescue me. He may be a little heavy on the Dork side.
But we should all be so lucky.