How do I love thee? His taste.


There is so much I don’t like about me. So many things I think would be improved with, oh, the help of some airbrushing or compression garments.


I strive to find that perfect hair color. The one that’s bright enough, soft enough, pretty enough, flattering enough. I’ll think I’ve got it, and then doubt. Always the doubt.


I’ll put on an outfit that feels good, fits well, and suits me. Then a brief reflection in a window will make my stomach plummet as the doubt pours in. Always the doubt.


I’ll sail through days, buoyed on compliments about my big teal eyes feeling confident that, yes, they ARE a good feature. Then a hard day will leave them red and irritated and I’ll doubt their true beauty.


I’ll be happy about my small(ish) feet or long legs or extremely long fingers and then see a wayward callous or vein or dry spot. Wrecked. Damaged. And the doubt surges.


And, in my doubt, I struggle to feel worthy. Worthy of appreciation. Worthy of desire. Worthy of cherishing.


So I pour out my doubts to him. Spew forth all that is wrong with me. Make sure he knows I know how flawed I am.


And, when I cut myself to the quick with my scathing criticisms, he meets my eyes with a steady gaze and says those four words that always set me straight:


Don’t insult my taste.


(On this, my thirty-seventh birthday, this seemed like a timely reminder for myself. It’s a reminder to you all, too, though. Love yourself. Honor yourself. Realize that, in doing so, you reinforce your spouse’s taste. And your Creator’s work.)

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