In my last post about fighting wrinkles someone (one of my favorite bloggers, actually) asked, "The light of the sun in the early morning in your bathroom mirror? Is that plaguing you too?"
My answer is no, it's not the early morning light that's plaguing me.
It's my husband, Chuck.
He's the one who stormed Beach Frogmama and dropped the wrinkle bomb. He's the one who was looking at me affectionately—or so I thought—in the kitchen as he was saying good-bye, the one who leaned in close—for a parting kiss, I thought—and blurted out, "Honey! You have wrinkles!" and threw me into a tizzy.
Truth be told, I had noticed the wrinkles a long time ago. (The exact date, if you're interested, was May 30, 2009, aka the same day I noticed I had grown chops that rivaled Ringo Starr's.) The wrinkles don't bother me so much. I'm a sleep-deprived woman in my thirties who has smiled a lot. How could I not have a few wrinkles?
Still, no woman wants to be called out on them. The surprise in Chuck's voice (and the honey part) saved him from eating a knuckle sandwich, but I groused and moaned to the point where he sent me a conciliatory email a few hours later:
I know, I know, his swooning is so embarrassing.
The email contained a photo attachment. Of what? I wondered. Chuck holding an "I'm sorry" sign? Chuck holding a bunch of roses? Diamonds? A "Husbands are senseless buttholes" t-shirt?
Nope, Chuck sent me a photo from the paranormal investigation he'd just driven to—a photo given to Chuck as pre-investigation evidence:
With shit like this in my inbox, is it any wonder I have wrinkles?