A few weeks ago, my new boots were just sitting by the front door, minding their own business, when my husband walked in. He glanced down, at my spiffy purchase and, with a face scrunched up, like a disgruntled Shitsu, he said: “What’s with those boots? Are they yours or Ava’s?”
“Mine,” I replied, with a hint of pride in my tone. They were quite unique, after all.
“You’re 40. Not 14,” he said, smirking in that know-it-all way that husbands (who think they know-it-all) do.
I didn’t respond. Nope. I just looked at him because sometimes a look is all you need. I simply smiled, sort of like this:
while silently committing to wearing my new boots as often as possible, especially while out with him.
And that’s what I did. I wore the boots. All. The. Time. Our daughters complimented me on them, while John rolled his eyes. He even made a few comments about the boots, in front of the girls, but I soon took it upon myself to turn such moments into lessons in individuality and feminism.
“You see girls, Dad doesn’t like my boots. But, that doesn’t mean I can’t still like my boots. I am my own person and if I like the boots then that’s all that matters!”
This went on casually and consistently for a few weeks. Until yesterday, actually.
Yesterday, the boots went missing.
I know he took them. He knows that I know he took them. I have no idea where they are and he’s not telling me. So, now I have no option but to dig out the old floral sweatpants, that he also dislikes. It just makes sense. Besides, they are so comfy.
And tonight, you can be sure, I’ll be wearing my white gown to bed. Because why wait ‘til summer when I can annoy my husband all year round.
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