Eye of the Beholder

     Sometime around the age of forty I began to fade. My strawberry-blonde hair lost its brightness; my peaches-and-cream complexion grew pale. Even my eyes went dim and I had to buy reading glasses. It's the kind of thing that sneaks up on you. I am not afraid of aging, in most ways I even embrace it, but I began to feel dull and unlovely. I must have begun moaning aloud because, one day, I found this card waiting for me in the kitchen:



     My husband is not a traditional romantic, at least not in the candy and flowers sense of the word, so when he gives me a rare, unexpected card it makes an impression. This one is so dear I keep it close to remind myself that beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

     There is such desperation in our modern world to cling to the beauty of one's youth. Alas, it has infiltrated my own thinking at times and affected the way I see myself. I do keep myself clean, curled and moderately well decorated, but there is something ineffably sweet in knowing I can show up frowsy-haired in a bathrobe and bunny slippers, and my husband thinks even the skin-deep part of me is still beautiful.

     I like my husband's eyes.