What? Who, me? I lift my head off my pillow, and look around the room. There's no one else here; just me, wearing an over-sized, rumpled men's white dress shirt, his, with my hair all over my head after a good night's rest. I am not wearing makeup, and without makeup, my eyes seem to disappear into the age spots that speckle the landscape of my face. My hands are rough from exposing them to harsh chemicals and cleansers. My belly is soft, and my thighs touch at the top. As I cross my ankles under the blankets, I realize it's been awhile since I shaved. Ew. Surely he must be mistaken, but there is no getting around it. This man thinks I'm beautiful.
Now I know I'm not ugly, but one of the last adjectives I would use to describe myself upon awakening is beautiful. Drowsy, perhaps, and a little later, perky, but beautiful? Hardly.
There's no denying he loves me, just as I am, with or without makeup. Dressed up, dressed down, or dressed not at all. He loves my curves, my hair, my legs and hips (seriously?). He even takes close-ups of my eyes, and remarks how beautiful my eyes are. When I point out my laugh lines, he tells me they are adorable.
|I see age spots and wrinkles; he sees the way the light comes through my eyes, declaring them perfect.|
I've always hated my profile, feeling that it accentuated how long my nose is, and how pointy my chin is. Guess who loves my profile? Guess who has convinced me that everything about me is just the way it should be, because to him, I'm perfect.
|This is one of his favorite pictures he took of me in front of the Smoky Mountains.|
Every morning, when our alarm goes off at 4:30, I know the first words out of his mouth will be "Good morning, Beautiful." He says that just like it is my name, and to him, it is. He tells me that I am beautiful, inside and out. He loves my smile, my heart, my mind, my body, and my spirit. When he puts it that way, I begin to soften, and begin to see what he sees.
I reply with "Hello, Handsome." He will always be that to me, and because of that, I can better understand the way he looks at me. I love him with a clean-shaven face, or a scratchy one. I love him with morning breath, or when his mouth is minty fresh from Colgate toothpaste. I love him whether his hair is neatly combed, or pillow tousled. I love him just as much in his pajama pants as I do in his dress slacks. I love him as he loves me. To me, he is perfect, too.
Finally, I can see beyond my pointy chin and kind of big nose that were genetic gifts from the two people who loved me first, and I see the way I look at this man, and I know that is how he looks at me. And to each other, we honestly see each other as beautiful and handsome.
So, I am learning to love how much he loves me. I no longer argue each and every point with him. I am also learning that it is a very liberating thing to be loved this way.