Why I ask my husband stupid questions

Matthew and I were sitting on the couch this evening, I carefully peeling an orange and him playing Gears of War 3 (don’t get me started), and I suddenly felt compelled to ask him, “Are you holding out hope that one day I’ll be skinny?”

I’m glad I didn’t waste my breath and instead thought, what a stupid question. But it got me thinking, and I had plenty of time to do so because peeling oranges takes me a very long time. I realized that I ask him all sorts of stupid questions, like, do you think I’m pretty? Do you love me? Do you think I’m [fill in the blank]?  I’m not wanting for affection; I certainly don’t feel undesired. So why ask such silly questions?

Mid-orange, it dawned on me. I’m not asking him those questions, I’m asking myself those questions. He’s merely a sounding board for my insecurities, an innocent middle-man forced into the ever-feared, “do these jeans make my butt look big?” quandary.

I put these questions on him so I don’t have to face the pain of my own answers. Do I think I’m pretty? Do I love myself? Am I holding out hope that one day I’ll be skinny?

On days when I’m feeling insecure, unattractive, unhappy, these stupid questions bubble up, seeking a person who will offer validation and comfort. Of course Matthew will always provide those things to me, but that’s not his responsibility. It’s not fair to ask him to field such preposterous questions. Besides, the mind is too great a thing to waste on such pointless ponderings.

Now, back to my orange.

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