Fig Leaves

Macrina looked up into my eyes and before I knew it we were slow dancing to Van Morrison's "Hymns to the Silence" on a Saturday morning. It was nice for about 30 seconds, and then it happened. . .I became self-conscious. I don't think it's about my dancing. . .I have a sense of rhythm and can manage to hold my wife tenderly and avoid stepping on her toes. I don't think it's about the physical closeness. . .I'm fairly comfortable with my middle-agish, out-of-shape body. Nope, it's about the emotional closeness. When I'm naked emotionally, I reach for the fig leaves. In this case I grabbed the first one I could find by saying, "I like this CD because he seems to be singing about things that matter to him." Ouch. . .I was sure I had ruined the moment, but Macrina didn't say anything. From the welling up in her eyes I don't think she even noticed. Sometimes we get away with one. But I knew what was going on. Fig leaves are drafty and the chill was noticible. . .at least to me.