Don't ask if you know you won't like the answer...

Asking questions is part of being human.

"Why does it get cold in the winter?"

"Why can't I seem to lose weight by eating candy?"

"Why do dogs smell?"

God made us inquisitive so we would figure things out and learn from them. The questions above can be answered simply, after careful observation: it gets cold because that particular hemisphere of the earth is turning away from the sun. Sugar turns to fat. Dogs are like boys, and boys smell, so it all makes sense.

Sometimes we ask questions rhetorically.

"Why do I keep making dinner when you persist in throwing it on the floor unceremoniously?"

"Wouldn't it be fascinating to lick your own spine?"

"Must I argue the wrongfulness of gaucho pants?"

And sometimes we ask questions because we want someone to verify what we already know.

"What would happen if I ate all the cheesecake and didn't save you any?"

"Am I allowed to go to the bathroom?"

"Will the sun come up tomorrow?"

"Do you think my hair is too short, and does it make me ugly?"

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I was standing at the craft closet in our kitchen this afternoon. I hurriedly shoved the bag of dry erase markers onto the shelf where they belonged, and closed the door. Jeremy opened the garage door next to me, and I jumped in front of him (no small feat for a pregnant lady) and said, "I'M CUTE AND I LOOK GOOD WITH A PIXIE CUT!"  I winced in preparation for his reaction.

Jeremy stood stalk still and stared at me blankly, but I thought I could see the slightly small look of a man disappointed.

I feigned a sorrowful look, and turned away, making dry weeping sounds.

"You think I'm ugly!"

Jeremy laugh and dropped his things on the kitchen counter.

"No," he replied diplomatically. "You just sprang it on me."

I wondered how I was supposed to break my hair cut to him gently. Wear a hat, and then take it off by degrees over a period of weeks?

I sighed loudly, hunched over and grabbed my purse, since I was going out.

"You did a nice job, darling," Jeremy added.

Liar face.

I had felt self-conscious about my hair all day. My usual pride in rocking a short do had crumbled shortly after I finished cutting my hair. Mostly because I had (even in my own estimation) gone too far.

I should really look into getting a bonzi tree so I can use my scissors with impunity. But, I would probably end up killing it with my over-exuberance.

After I got home, and we had had dinner and put the kids in bed, I persisted in getting Jeremy's real opinion as we laid in bed reading.

"You think it's too short," I accused.

"I think you look nice with short and long hair," he said evenly.

I huffed loudly.

"I want you to be HONEST," I replied, voice rising.

"Look," he said. "Why do you even care what I think?"

"Because you are my husband!" Doy.

"I told you, you are cute with short hair, and you look nice with long hair...."

"JUST TELL ME YOU THINK I'M UGLY!" I was starting to get extremely aggravated. Jeremy's diplomacy, while normally charming, wasn't what I wanted. My eyes started to well up.

"Don't cry..." Jeremy said, wiping away a tear.

"I can't help it...I'm a sponge. You squeeze me, I start dripping. Just tell me what you really think of my hair cut..."

"I told you," Jeremy replied patiently.

I couldn't take anymore, so I rolled over and pulled the pillow over my head, simultaneously covering my ugly crying face and my ugly short hair.

He didn't say anything as I cried into my pillow.

I asked a question. A question I wanted him to answer with what I had decided about it: My hair was too short, and it was ugly, and, ultimately, that I was now ugly.

That's all I wanted him to say.

So I could punch him in the face.

Because I couldn't punch my own.