A scene from a marriage, as captured by the monkey house this morning:
(Keep in mind as you read this that I am currently in fashion limbo between regular clothes and maternity clothes. My options: they are limited)
(Also keep in mind that generally speaking, my husband is a snappier dresser than I am. I struggle with trying to look polished and professional, even when not pregnant)
Me: Does this outfit look okay?
Michael: (long pause) Um, yeah, I guess so.
Me: No, really, what do you think?
Michael: I think it looks kind of space age or something.
Me: Like I’m an extra on Star Trek?
Me: Oh, good.
Michael: I was thinking more like Battlestar Galactica.
(Please note that I failed to ask if he was referring to 1970s Battlestar Galactica or the current version. I’m hoping he at least thought the modern version but, knowing him and that many of his cultural references are from the 1970s, I’m probably wrong about that)
Me: Well, I’m wearing it anyways. I don’t have a whole lot of other options.
Michael: Did you know that there are clothes in the dryer? They are clean. And dry.
Me: Yeah. I’m wearing this.
Michael: (says nothing)(no doubt thinking: Then why did you ask my opinion, woman?)
Me: (smiles, says nothing) (100% thinking: just tell me I look nice and not weird and lumpy.)
Michael: Okay. Have a good day.
Me: Okay. Love you.
He is a good egg, that Mr. Monkey, even if he thinks I look like a space age fashion disaster.