Being Visual

My husband does not do visual.  His words.  He would not be a good witness at a crime scene, he couldn’t tell you if the perpetrator was young or old or tall or thin, what color the person’s hair was, what the person was wearing.  He doesn’t recognize me when we become separated in Costco, unless I stand in the middle of the aisle waving my arms above my head.  A couple of years ago there was an event where he had to be on stage to introduce a prominent speaker.  On the way there, I noticed he was wearing the jacket from one of the two suits he owns, and the pants from the other.  It might have been understandable if they were the same color but one was blue and one was brown.  I have no idea why I didn’t catch it before we left home  — and when I pointed it out, his serious reply was “Do you think anyone will notice?”  “Yes,” I said.  “They will.”  We turned around, he changed and we set off again.  The upside of this quality:  He doesn’t notice that I’m getting older, will never criticize — or care — what I choose to wear, will never mind if I were to gain a hundred pounds. I’ve got a pretty sweet deal going.