Well, here I am, with the best topknot I can pull off with my shorter than you'd like mom-cut.
I've worked hard on developing these crater-size under-eye bags to accompany it.
I'm also treating you to my sans makeup face, and rockin' my favorite housewear -- one of your t-shirts.
Under that shirt of yours are my saggy breasts.
Can you see them? They're there.
Okay, good, you found them.
Did you see my belly pudge while you were looking for the ittybitties?
Yep, that's there too.
How about these sweatpants, do you like them?
At least these are mine.
They go really well with my mismatched socks.
Don't forget to notice my pimple and the bright yellow scrunchi because nothing says turn-off like this extreme level of hotmessness.
Do I feel sexy?
Of course not.
Not when I first wake,
not usually throughout the day,
and most definitely not once all of the tykes have gone to bed, and I've glued my biscuit to the couch.
I rarely feel anything other than semi-embarrassed by my typical lack of put-togetherness on the day-to-day, but then I remind myself of this --
That what turns good men on about their wives is not
the cost of their outfits or how snugly they fit,
their perfect skin or well-styled hair,
their tweaked and toned physique or their perfectly manicured nails and toes.
What turns a good man on about his wife is
how well she loves their children,
how well she loves him,
and, by golly, how well she loves herself.
Nothing, and I mean nothing says I'm putting all of my energy into loving each of you and me so much that I've lost some sex appeal in the process, like a mom who has come and looks a bit "undone."
If and when your wife confesses to you that she doesn't feel sexy, remind her that, in your eyes, what makes her unconditionally desirable resides safely inside of her chest cavity and has nothing to do with her outward appearance (though hers, well, it always turns you the hell on).