God spoke to me today about underwear. My underwear, that is.
He really did (speak to me, that is). Oh, it wasn’t in an audible voice, but I heard Him nevertheless.
I think all underwear should fit well, and so I’ve done the getting measured for the right size and style at important, well-known lingerie stores. I’ve spent time trying them on and asking the clerk about styles and closure and underwire or no-wire. Then I get enough so I have plenty to wear when laundry day is longer in arriving. My husband never bats an eye when I tell him what it cost him.
The part I struggle with is the bottom part. Oh, believe me, I believe in the right size and the right fabric for comfort and breathability and no static. I just have trouble parting with a pair when it still feels good, even if it doesn’t look so hot.
It’s true that I’ve worn some that I’d be embarrassed to be found in should I ever end up in an emergency room. But I figure the nurses would be so busy with urgent matters that they wouldn’t take the time to worry about underthings. (I’m a nurse; I know).
So then I succumb to the creed of my mother’s generation of folks who believed in using things until they were completely worn out. Worn out, as in little elastic left, faded fabric colors, and no imagination left with that piece of loin covering. Oh, I know about wearing things out. I grew up in the my-mother-grew-up-in-the-depression-era generation.
If it still fits, still feels good, and nobody sees it, then who cares? That’s my sentiment.
When I think of refugees and their limited wardrobe, it seems that I should be justified in wearing my underwear a little longer. After all, since no one else sees, who should care?
My husband cares! Oh, does he ever care!
He likes to know that what I’m wearing is nice – and pretty. He likes to know it isn’t faded and that it fits well. Oh, did I mention sexy? That, too. Especially the sexy part.
So the other day as I was folding laundry – including those unmentionables – I finally realized that the colors were faded and the elastic was beyond beginning to fray. Judging by the pile of folded you-know-what-items, you could conclude that my hubby doesn’t care enough about me to take good care of me.
That’s not true!
If what I wear matters to him, and he thinks it is worth the money, then why should I care about the cost? Why should I choose to hang onto things he’d rather I not keep? Why should I choose to wear garments that are threadbare, if he would rather that I didn’t?
Even if no one else knows but us, it’s important. ‘Especially important because he is the most important person in my life.
I’m not a doormat, and Dave doesn’t trample over me, lording his position in our marriage. I believe in submission because God said so. I also believe that a husband should love his wife just like Jesus loved His church – because God said so.
And when a husband does it right, his wife wants to please him.
I not only want to please this man, my husband. I am responsible before God to please him – and please him well – as long as it doesn’t conflict with scripture.
Near as I can tell, Solomon thought that one of the best things about marriage was for a husband and wife to please each other well.
I agree. Now it’s time to prove that, even when no one else knows but the two of us.
You can call it submission, pleasing him, or being spoiled – or whatever you like, but I’m heading to the store for some new bun covers.
Just to be sure, I had my man read over this. Those exclamation marks? He did those. Yep, he changed those periods to an exclamation mark. So, just in case you wonder what he thinks about this, now you know.