After weeks of listening to my husband talk about his old girlfriends – even though I’ve begged him not to, but the names still come up – I asked him, begged him on my hands and knees to answer what I thought would be a simple question:
How is my body better than theirs?
He can’t answer it because the reality is that they were beautiful – long hair, petite, brunette, etc. – and this good man sleeps with a disaster, a tragedy, a mistake of nature.
It is certainly not right that everything I am, everything I’ve done and accomplished, learned and mastered, is rendered useless by the fact that I’m not petite and dark.
It is even more unjust that Ron – so decent, so generous, so loving – should have to put up with it.
What a sick, perverse world we live in.