I was reminded of one of the themes I’ve written into my book the other day. In real life it goes something like this:
My husband and I were heading out to a movie and I quickly threw on a sweater and jeans. As I was jamming my arm into my jacket I asked him, “Does this look okay?”
“You look wonderful,” he replied after a brief glance from across the main floor of the house.
“What difference does it make?” he asked, “I gave you the right answer.
Well, sort of. Maybe. Depends what I’m going for.
What I really wanted at the time was an objective opinion of whether or not I needed to fix my hair or change my clothes so I wouldn’t look stupid leaving the house. My daughters are good at that. They very quickly tell me which of their clothes I shouldn’t wear anymore—apparently I’m too old to wear some of them.
Sure, it’s a bit of a blow to my ego to hear it, but wouldn’t it be a worse blow to have people laugh at me when I’m out? I’d rather hear it from people who love me—preferably before I leave the house.
Isn’t that what family is for?
Clothes and hair are one thing, but who we are is quite another. I want people around me who care enough about me to choke down their discomfort and tell me when I’ve messed up. It’s the only way I can see that sometimes. While my husband isn’t too concerned about my hair, he does let me know if I’m chasing down a wrong track.
I want people in my life who will help me be a better person, not just tell me what they think I want to hear.