My wife told me the other day that I am handsome, and by this, coupled with unassailable logic of a manly type, I have come to the inescapable conclusion that she thinks me ugly.

When I got married, I was chubby. Not particularly fat, not particularly skinny. Chubby. Since she married me, I can only assume that my wife liked me chubby, and for this assumption I have accumulated, through years of marriage, substantial anecdotal evidence. Suffice it to say that it is well established that my wife liked (likes) chubby Pat.

There is a picture in my bedroom of that glorious and heaven-sent day when this beautiful young woman permanently and inextricably tied her fate to my own in the presence of God, man and my family. This picture captured for eternity the cheerfully plump visage for which my wife once fell. Commit this detail to memory, dear reader, as it is crucial to my tale of woe.

During my many years of marital happiness, and during those other years as well, my appearance has periodically altered, as does the tree with the season. As it does many a young man, the first years of matrimony provided me with a joy and a girth heretofore unknown. My once cheerfully cherubic face had been slowly transmogrified into one resembling a close relative of a certain Jabba of the clan of Hut. In short, I had become a genuine fatty. That my wife was not enamored of my appearance at this weight was evidenced by her repeated concern expressed over my “health” or some such fanciful and theoretical thing.

Now while there were certainly joys associated with this way of life, on the whole I found it detrimental to my ability to chase and rescue from untold peril my budding brood. So I therefore resolved, by means of myopic devotion to the hobby of triathlon, to lose weight. Which I did and which at first seemed to please my wife. But I found that once my de-fattification went beyond returning me to my preceding cherubic state, that I was now subject to repeated comments about going “too far” and looking “drawn.”

At every turn I was assured that these comments were, once again, generated only by selfless concern over my “health.” As an aside, it is a wondrous thing how my wife’s selfless concern always involves me doing something she wants, which axiomatically means I don’t, and that any offense I may take in it must surely and purely be the result of my fallen nature misunderstanding her angelic one. Funny, that. Anyway…

After some years, at the continued and relentless urging of my spouse, (not to be confused with nagging, dear reader) I quit the sport. It comes as no surprise that without my preposterous pastime, I soon returned to my former Hutt-like appearance. But then again after some years, the genetically faulty female memory of pain being what it is, my wife once again encouraged me to take up sport, which I have, and which has again been followed by the transformation of my face.

The story, my dear and patient reader, now takes us to the events of the last weeks.

My little 3-year-old will have her fourth birthday in November. Over the past few weeks, she has repeatedly asked my wife and I, “When I turn four, will I still be the same person?” To which we have obviously replied, “Of course, sweetie. You will always be the same person.”

As it is with such things, (curiosity, dead cats, and all) I am the author of all my own misery. I resolved upon hearing my daughter’s odd question, for what may have been the fifth time, to understand more deeply the inner workings of a small female brain. This, I learned, is like trying to understand the minds of Messrs. Smith and Wesson from the working end of a revolver.

In the presence of my wife, “Daddy, when I turn four, will I still be the same person?”

“Of course, honey. Why would you think you wouldn’t be the same person?”

“Daddy. You are not the same person as you were in the picture in your bedroom. Mommy is the same person, but you aren’t.”

My wife seized upon this statement more fiercely than would Michael Moore to the last chili dog on a desert island.

“See? Even your own daughter doesn’t recognize you!”

“Umm. She properly identified me as Daddy, no?”

“You know what I mean. Your face, your face (insert troublingly long pause here) is just so ... different.”

The next day my wife, clearly fearing that even a dolt such as me would properly understand the implications of her Shatneresque pause, spontaneously (ahem) told me that I was handsome. Not just once, but four times.

Four times.

So, restating my original premise. My wife told me the other day that I am handsome, and by this, coupled with unassailable logic of a manly type, I have come to the inescapable conclusion that she thinks me ugly. And now you know that I am right. Quod erat demonstrandum.

But here is the thing. I found being classified as ugly somewhat liberating, even empowering. Now, when people see me (ugly guy) at Applebees with my wife (beautiful woman), they will be forced to conclude that I have unsuspected depth. How else could I (ugly guy) get the girl?

For a few moments I took some relish in my new “unsuspected depth” status. That is until I realized I could have the same thing being fat, but that would have been a lot more fun. So now I am ugly and stupid. Hey, I must really have unsuspected depth!