Legs

The other day I was complaining to Keaton about how, after I'm done nursing Jamison, my bra size will probably dwindle. He smiled.

"It's a good thing I'm not a boob guy, then, huh?"

What? Not a boob guy? "What kind of guy are you?"

"I'm a leg guy," he said.

My world came crashing down around me. How could I have gone through five years of dating and three and a half years of marriage under the false assumption that my husband was a boob guy?

Then I started thinking. How often does he even ever see my legs? Never.
And then, how often do I shave my legs? Also never. Maybe the occasional Sunday.

Why on earth couldn't he just be a boob guy? I've got plenty of that! And they require very little upkeep.

Come to think of it, I hardly pay attention to my legs at all. They get me around. That's all I really ever needed 'em for, right? And they are white. Ghostly white. Haven't seen the sun in years. And when they do, they have a tendency to turn lobster red and then...go right back to white.

It became obvious that these appendages deserved closer examination. I gave them a good look-over.

Yep. White. Very white. A little freckled. Not a bad shape, really. And no varicose veins or spider veins (which is only fair. I have plenty of chubs and stretch marks left over from pregnancy, there had to be some slack cut for me somewhere.) So that was lucky. Maybe could use some good moisturizer. And some nice heels....well now. My legs aren't half bad.

So my beauty regimen now includes more in the way of leg care. I shave more often. (Like Sunday and Wednesday.) And I have vowed to seek out more cute skirts for my summer wardrobe. Gotta keep my leg man satisfied after years of neglect.

And I'm thankful.
At least he's not a butt guy.