Inside Out

My outfit looked a little something like this: dingy grey tank top over a pair of my grandpa’s oversized blue and white checkered pajama pants. Five minutes into his visit I got hot and changed into Mickey Mouse boxer shorts and a pair of grungy white socks (my feet were cold).

My hair, which hadn’t been washed in three days, was sticking to my head, I wore no makeup and my body smelled faintly of celery. I was a walking PMS commercial — bloated, unshaven and overly self-conscious — but he was completely unfazed. His smile was as wide as the first day I’d met him six years ago, which he later told me was the moment he knew he was going to love me. I could have been wearing a little black dress and fishnets and his reaction would’ve been the same.

He wasn’t here for high fashion or good hygiene. He was here for me.

Me.

“You have always excited me,” he said, as he ran his hands down my stubbly legs. “Everyone in my life knows how I feel about you.”

I guess I did now, as I was at my least polished but in his presence managed to feel as if I was at my dazzling best.

This was foreign territory. I’d forgotten how it feels to be seen on the inside and liked for that person. No bells and whistles. No beach bronzed skin or sexy legs. No waxed body parts or coiffed hair.

Could it be that he values my sense of humor more than my ass? Are my morals more important to him than a blowjob?

Everything in me is pointing to yes. To him, who I am matters.

Me.

We are curled up, like human balls of yarn, on the couch, and I tell him I never thought we’d be sitting here, all giddy and smitten, six years after we first met (and I dumped him).

“I always hoped we would,” he smiled. “I knew you’d see things my way.”

That would be nice. His vision is much better than mine.