As I lay face down on the chiropractor's table, he assessed the bottoms of my boots. Since my view is mostly limited to the side visible when they are on my feet, he saw something I often miss.

"They are wearing unevenly. You walk with your arches curved in. Let's get you some inserts to correct it."

While I was peripherally aware that my boots did that, I always faulted the construction, not my gait. This was new information, and I welcomed it. 

At supper that night I was sauteing vegetables in a cast iron pan. John looked on.

"If the pan is more centered on the flame it will cook evenly."

Why was he always correcting me? Can't I even make dinner without being admonished? I moved the pan with a huff. 

I wondered how I would have reacted if John had observed the soles of my shoes, and offered a suggestion. Why was I more receptive to a doctor than the man I married? Because I paid him to tell me what was wrong? 

The irony is, John knows me better than anyone. He is privy to the receiving end of my moods and conversations in a way I am not. There are times he sees my rolling eyes, or scrunched eyebrows when I cannot. Because who steps in front of a mirror when you are testy?

If I am honestly interested in self improvement it behooves me to listen when he offers a suggestion. Maybe things would go better if I just handed him a twenty every few days.