My wife was standing naked in front of our bedroom mirror. Again.
This has become a regular occurrence over the last couple months, as her self-image has slowly but steadily plummeted. When we wed ten years ago, she was a certified ten: five foot eight inches, chestnut hair, a slender, toned body and a girl-next-door face that would soften the heart of the cruelest dictator.
But in her mind, breast-feeding our twin boys (now three years old and spending the week at my parents'), and motherhood in general, had severely impacted her body. I could not disagree more.
As I sat on the bed behind her, I admired her supple cheeks, not as firm as they were in college, but still shapely and fun to squeeze. Her legs had lost some of the definition they acquired when we would jog, but they would still draw the attention of a crowd when adorned in a miniskirt. Despite her negative opinion of herself, most people would still consider her a catch.
She ran her fingers over the lingering scar from the cesarean, and her palms slid over the stretch marks, faded but prevalent. I had tried to convince her in the past that she should be proud of these.
"Sweetheart, scars are pretty bad-ass," I had argued. "Especially ones from which life is extracted." But she wasn't having it.
Cupping her breasts in her hands, lifting them to where they used to rest at peak perkiness, her eyes closed in disappointment. I watched her reaction in the mirror.
"Honey," I said. "You know you are still as beautiful as ever."
"You have to say that," she retorted, turning back from the mirror and climbing into bed. She slid under the sheets and turned her back to me, a familiar sequence since our sons joined the family.
"Just because I have to say it doesn't mean it isn't true, Nicole," I offered as I slid behind her and put my hand on her waist.
"I'm sorry honey, but I don't believe you. And I'm not in the mood," she said, removing my hand and turning back into her cocoon.
I rolled onto my back and huffed loudly, my only way of expressing how frustrating our lack of intimacy was becoming.
"Just try to cheer up a bit before Heather and Mark come over tomorrow for dinner. You won't make much of a host in your current state."
She remained quiet, either because she was ignoring me or because she had already drifted asleep.
.....
Heather and Mark lived across the street, and though they were twelve years our senior, at 46, we were closer to them than any of our other neighbors. Since our kids were born, we did not have as much time for hosting them, or even visiting them, for that matter. But with our boys at my parents' house for the week, we decided to ask them to dinner.
After I had set the table and Nicole had prepared dinner, she ran upstairs to get dressed. I followed her, hoping to have a say in what she would wear.
"Honey, why don't you put this one on," I said, pulling out a simple but sexy black dress. "You have always been a knockout in this."
Nicole had already pulled on a pair of jeans and was picking out a low cut, tight fitting t-shirt. "I don't think so, love," she said. "It is not that formal a party."
"This isn't over the top, and it might make you feel a little sexier, don't you think?"
Nicole shook her head, visibly frustrated that I was trying to help her get dressed, and not wanting to think about her body image. "I'm happy with this," she said, pulling on the shirt.
She did look good. The jeans hugged her in all the right places, and her shirt and bra provided about four inches of cleavage. While her breasts had sagged a bit, they still looked ample when stuffed in a bra.
I returned downstairs as Nicole worked on her hair. Pacing, expecting Heather and Mark in a few minutes, I pondered ways to convince Nicole that I truly think she is sexy, and that others do, too. I picked up the phone and kept my eyes on the top of the stairs to make sure she wasn't on her way down.
Heather answered, "Hello?"
"Heather, its John. Can you do me a favor?"
"Sure, what is it?"
"Nicole has been incredibly down on herself lately. Could you make a big deal about how great she looks tonight?"
"Sure, of course I will. Do you want me to ask Mark to say something, too? It might seem obvious coming from me."
"OK, whatever you think," I said. "So long as you think he can do it without it seeming awkward."
Heather laughed, forcing me to hold the phone away from my ear. "I think he can manage," she said.
.....
Nicole had prepared roasted chicken with balsamic reduction, alongside mushroom risotto and ginger carrots. She had learned from her mother, the best cook I ever knew, and managed the kitchen so meticulously that her dinner presentations were flawless. Even if she was down on her body image, I knew she felt confident in the kitchen. Her meals commanded applause, were that kind of thing socially acceptable.
I, always in search of a new wine to pair with her cuisine, had decanted two bottles of negroamaro from Puglia. Dark, rustic and earthy, with oaky notes and leathery accents, it accentuated every nuance in Nicole's fare, which only inspired us to drink it faster. The manner in which the four of us consumed Nicole's cooking was a cross between scarfing and savoring. Her food flew off the plate to a chorus close-lipped accolades.
As we finished our meal and I poured the last of the decanter into our guests' glasses the customary compliments started flowing.
"Everything was delicious!" Mark exclaimed. "Thanks so much, Nicole."
"I second that," said Heather. "We never eat so well as when we eat here."
"I feel like I am the luckiest man in the world," I said. "A wife who looks like this AND can cook!"
"Honey, please!" Nicole blushed as I put my arm around her shoulders. PDA was not her thing.
"You really did luck out, pal," said Mark. He opened his mouth as if to continue, but stopped himself. I had a feeling he was going to say something borderline crude and thought better of it.
Heather, however, had clearly been impacted by the two bottles of wine we had consumed.
"I'm sorry to be so blunt, Nicole, but your tits look fucking amazing in that top!"
