True Love 2

It has been determined that my husband is blind to my figure flaws. And, according to a friend, such blindness is a sign of true love.

But I know what really means true love and it has nothing to do with how my butt looks in these jeans.

As I ironed shirts for my sons last night, my husband breezed into the laundry room and shook his head at my work. "You don't know what you're doing," he exclaimed at me. "You're making a mess of those shirts. Why do you keep spraying on starch like that. Those shirts are so stiff they belong on a body in a morgue. Why'd you put the crease there? That's not where it goes. And the collars. My gosh!"

You may not know it, but these are beautiful, sweet, romantic words. He means every one of them from the crevices of his soul, and he cares enough for me to be plainly honest. I love him for it. Even more than that, though, I know he loves me.

The next thing he says is, "I'll finish these shirts." He grabs the iron from my hand, and caps the starch, and rearranges the shirt on the ironing board, and shoos me away. He doesn't even expect me to stand and watch him like he does when he fixes the dishwasher or pays bills on-line.

This, my friends, is true love.