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…honesty?

I know I should be thrilled to have such an honest husband. I can trust him explicitly. Even if he tried to lie, I’d be able to see it written all over his face.

Sometimes, though, a little more tact and a little less bluntness few lies wouldn’t hurt. Or, just silence. Whatever happened to, “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all?” I guess that’s gone to the wayside.

A couple of weeks ago during Sunday mass, Dan moved closer to me in the pew and leaned in to whisper in my ear. I was expecting to hear something loving, or possibly a comment about someone sitting around us. However, what I heard was,

“I see some gray.”

“What?” I whispered. “What are you talking about? Oh. My. God,” I practically shouted over the reader. “You mean gray hair? On me???”

“Yep.”

Nice.

Today I got a double whammy.

I was standing in the kitchen, dressed for the Y in my new matchy-matchy workout clothes Dan bought me for Mother’s Day. He walked over, grabbed an inch (okay… three) and said,

“What’s this?”

“My fat. Thanks for pointing it out,” was my reply.

Now, I have to admit that I had a few beers drank my weight in beer over the weekend in St. Louis. But, really. Does he have to grab it?

To top it off (as if it needed topping off), Dan next asks me, as he moves the hair out of my eyes,

“Are you going to brush your hair before you go to the Y?”

“No. I’m not,” I said defiantly as I stomped off.

Sheesh. How much can a girl gray-haired, fat, uncoiffed old lady take?