I recently found myself wearing a scarf that had a rather large piece of cardboard dangling from it. The luggage tag sized rectangle hung like a flag out of the front of my coat as I headed confidently to an appointment. It said "Machine Wash and Dry Gently" and in underlined letters "Do Not Iron". As if that weren't bad enough...acrylic and polyester. Imagine my surprise as I followed the tag and string to a medium sized safety pin. Red faced, I looked around to see if anyone was watching and I immediately removed the offending label. Why hadn't I noticed it before? This wasn't the first time I'd worn the scarf. On the other hand, hubby hadn't noticed either and he's the one who should be looking at me.
Once again, I shared my frustration with him. "You never look at me. Why don't you tell me when I look weird leaving the house?"
"I didn't notice your hair until just now," he says.
"My hair? My hair? What's wrong with my hair?" I ask. And so it goes.
I remember another incident where I walked around for the better part of the day with makeup brush bristles on my face...not little bristles, but great big long black bristles. I have since purchased a new blusher brush with horsehair blonde fibres, but that's not the point. I have also learned to check my face in the brightness of the car visor mirror whenever we leave the house.
On Sunday, we went to church. Hair was intact, no face bristles, powder blue blazer, navy blue silk shirt and matching pants. Fantastic. I felt good. After I descended from the van, I reached for my pants pockets to check for tissues lest it be a particularly rivetting and emotional sermon. I groped around looking for the pockets and when I finally reached into them, I realized that both of my hands had a firm grip on my own buttocks. I waved at the church greeters as I darted past them to the rest room where I removed and reversed the offending pants. Whew, that was close.
The big test came the other day when I decided I needed to make a hair appointment. I walked up to hubby, who was engrossed in work in his office. My hair was sticking out in 52 different directions, a feat in itself since I only have 48 hairs on my head. Looking like some kind of Anime cartoon character, I said, "Look at me. What's wrong with how I look?" He rolled his chair slowly back from his desk, stretched and looked. I saw his eyes gaze down, beginning at my stretchy slippers, then to my mismatched socks, moving up to my Lululemon yoga pants, then my oversized baggy t-shirt. He seemed baffled as to what to say. OK, so it wasn't the best look but nonetheless. Glancing at the overall picture would have made it obvious.
"My hair...it's my hair. Can't you see it sticking out everywhere? It's totally unruly. I need to make a hair appointment!"
"OK. Make one," was the response. The chair rolled back to the desk and he once again hunched over his computer.
So I find myself making excuses like, my menial issues aren't important to him. He's so busy I shouldn't bother him. No wonder he doesn't notice. He doesn't care what I look like because he loves me even with bristles, sticking out hair and backwards pants. I was momentarily appeased as a result of my rationalization. Then I heard it. "Oh, my poor little puppy...look at that crusty eye. Let's just clean it out for you. Let's cut off this little knot I see under your ear. There, what a good girl. Are you my girl? Look how nice you look now."
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