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Mr. Johns and I decided we needed a new garbage can. It was a very exciting day because our old garbage can was driving us crazy, and we made the mutual decision that we were willing to spend as much as necessary to get the garbage can of our dreams.

So, as we all started getting on our shoes, I stopped in front of the mirror and said, “Does this shirt make me look too fat?”

(Side note: I have no issues with my weight. I love my curves, and I’m very healthy, besides the odd bout of Strep Throat, so this wasn’t an insecure question. I’m just aware that some styles are less flattering than others–and this was a rather snug-fitting tank top that I hadn’t yet worn out of doors.)

Mr. Johns burst out laughing.

Me: What?

Mr. Johns: I’ve heard stories about that question. Men warn each other about it. People have gotten divorced over that question.

Me: Well, do I?

Mr. Johns: No.

Me: Would you tell me if I did?

Mr. Johns: Of course not. I don’t want to end up divorced… but you don’t.

This left me in a quandary, because if he wouldn’t tell me if the shirt were unflattering, then how could I trust this current declaration that the shirt was fine? But frankly, this wasn’t worth the trouble since we were only going out to buy the mother of all garbage cans, so if someone happened to pass me and think, “That shirt does nothing for her,” then I’d just have to live with it.

We looked at each other for a moment, he gave me the once over up and down, cocked his head to one side.

Mr. Johns: You’re beautiful. Let’s go buy a garbage can.

So we did. ❤

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And it’s a good garbage can.

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