I was standing in front of the mirror repeating my daily mantra of self-loathing, as I do each morning.
"I will never be thin," I fretted, twisting and turning in front of the mirror.
"What do you expect?" asked Sven. "You're middle-aged."
You may not know this about me, but when I get really worked up, I jump. I leaped in the air and pounded Sven on any part of his anatomy that I could reach.
I was furious. "Middle aged?" I shrieked. "Do I look like a middle aged woman to you?"
"What's the big deal?" he asked. "You're the one who said it."
"You weren't supposed to say that," I said, and I stopped. Of course he wasn't supposed to say that. What I wanted him to say was, "Deb, you are even more beautiful now than you were on the day I first saw you. I am so grateful every day that you chose to spend your life with me. I cannot imagine what I would be without you."
Ha. Like he would ever, ever say that. He might think it. Might. But say it? Never.
So I did the classic passive-aggressive stereotypical woman dance of words, in which I attempt to force him to say what I hope he's feeling.
What I love the most about Sven is that he makes me see things very clearly. If I really thought of myself as dumpy and middle-aged, would I have been that mad? No. Sad? Possibly. But I wasn't sad at all. I was hilariously furious.
I'm so lucky to have me.
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