margaret edith

My very, very sweet boy also reads to me every night.
Complete with voices.

A few days ago, out of nowhere he said “Can I ask you something?”

And I panic, because once I give permission for the question, it could be:
Why don’t we have sex every five minutes?
Would you mind if I spent more time on my own?
Do you secretly eat whole bags of crisps in one go?
Really, how many people have you slept with?
How would you feel if I moved back to England next year?
<continue out of control mind spin>

So I say, “Oh my god. What?”

And he looks at me, a bit startled, and asks “Do you think you’d mind if I did the voice of Count Rogen differently? I don’t think I got it right so far.”

This morning, as we were walking down the sidewalk beginning our daily commutes, my boyfriend said to me “you look pretty.”

Of course, this is a nice thing for a boyfriend type person to say.  But at this particular moment, I looked at him, opened my mouth to say something, and after a lengthy pause, managed “ok, well that’s nice of you to say, poppet.”

Over instant messenger, once we were both at work, a ridiculous argument ensued about why I got annoyed that he said I was pretty.  For real.  So either I’m just an evil asshole, or boys are silly.

So, I know I’m not a supermodel.  And certainly I’ve got some physical attributes that I’d say are less than gorgeous.  But in a completely objective way, I know that I’ve got a nice enough looking face and that I’m probably better looking than at least 50% of the population.

But!  This moring:
1.  I have spots.  Not big gross ones, but a lot of little annoying ones.  Blackheads that just won’t settle down and are getting irritated and making blotchy read camp sites around my nose and chin.  While donating my apartment to the sleeping needs of the boyfriend’s visiting sister and brother-in-law, I went without Proactiv for about 3 days.  And it shows.
2.  I am exhausted.  I don’t know if I’m half-way catching the end of summer cold that’s been going around, but I am dragging.  And it is written all over my face.  Particularly in quippy little witticisms under my eyes.
3.  In order to eek out as much sleep as possible, I didn’t get up until it was too late to take a shower.  So my hair is a bit scrotty and ratty, and vaguely precursor-y of the greasiness it will be in 6 hours.
4.  No make-up.  Same reason as number 3.  Too tired to take the extra five minutes.  Thus, am spotty, with a splotchy skin tone.  No eyeliner or mascara = pasty puffy piggy eyes.
5.  My pants are just a little bit too tight and are all crease-y across my hips and upper thighs.  Some good eating and going to the gym habits have slipped.  Whatever.  I suck.

Thus, it was not my foxiest day.  I look rather fugly.  Not a big deal.  Some other day will be better.  But a strange time indeed to be telling me that I look pretty.  And the thing is, I get it.  He’s a boy, feeling like saying something nice and loving.  And his boy noggin says to him ‘what’s a nice thing to say that expresses my lovingness and attraction?’  The noggin, very uncreatively, suggests the ol’ ‘you look pretty’ line.  So he tries it.  It falls a little short.  She gets annoyed and the boy and the noggin are confused.