My poor husband.
A look of anguish fills his face as he ponders the future, knowing that all is not as he thought it was.
He is depressed.
Today, however, it has nothing to do with health, or money, or work, or family. Ok, well it might have a little to do with each and every one of the above, but for the purpose of this post, it has nothing to do with them.
Today my husband has measured himself.
And before all you ladies start squealing with excitement, I'm talking about his height of course.
But this is no laughing matter, I can assure you.
For today my husband has realised that he is 5 foot 11, when, for the whole of his fully-grown, adult life, he believed himself to be a statuesque 6 foot 1.
Where on earth those missing two inches have gone is anybody's guess. Admittedly, the poor love is French and does get a tad confused with feet and inches.
But the plain truth prevails.
He is 5 foot 11.
For we have measured. And measured again, just to be sure.
So why is he so depressed? What is it about a man's height, or a woman's weight or dress size for that matter, that becomes such an obsession? Why do we lie, or kid ourselves or exaggerate or stand up loud and proud and tell the world that our baby is so huge that their vital statistics can't even be plotted on a graph?
Does a man have to be big to be a man, or a woman skinny to be a woman?
Of course not.
So what is it then?
Just as I'm sitting here pondering the answer, it lands directly in my lap.
A text message from my husband.
"My ears are burning. Are you writing about me? I don't mind as long as at the end you say that I'm big enough and tall enough for all your needs."
So there's the answer. It's as simple as that. All men want is to be big enough for their women.
And, for the record, husband, 5 foot 11 is enough for me.
hayley balozi posted a blog post
1 day ago