the story of my love life:
Part 1 – Fame | Part 2 – Sandra Goes Wild | Part 3 – Sandra Grows Up… and Down | Part 4 – Uncomfortably Numb | Part 5 – What is Love? | Part 6 – The Love of Romance
Part 7 – Let’s Go to Bed.
Part history, part philosophy, all me.
When I read about marriage, I’m somewhat comforted. After years together – life, jobs, children – a couple isn’t the same as they were when they started dating. It’s no longer all-consuming. Priorities and responsibilities change. The time devoted to only each other shrinks and what’s left of it is often invaded by everything else. And the physical part of the relationship often suffers. It suffers.
We’ve probably all heard the myth that claims men reach their sexual peak at about 18 while for women, the age is closer to 35. And we’ve all been bombarded [from everywhere – movies, television, books, people – everywhere] with the idea that men always want it but women don’t… Not tonight, honey, I have a headache.
I have never uttered those words in my life.
[Besides, everyone knows (or should know) that orgasms cure headaches. For everyone, right? It occurs to me at this very moment that maybe it’s just me. Good thing I can self-treat. But I digress.]
I want sex. I want to be kissed and to kiss. I want to make love and be made love to. I want it sweet and romantic and I want it wild and impetuous. I want it slow and I want it rushed. I want to be cherished and I want to be fucked. I want it all.
And lately, I want it a lot more often than John does.
Sometimes I’m frustrated and a little hurt that he doesn’t initiate more often. But he doesn’t refuse me when I initiate. However, I don’t initiate nearly as often as I really want to because I get stuck in the frustrated-and-hurt place and that’s kind of a mood-killer.
John knows I’m a romantic and he knows he’s not. And I think this makes John believe that I need big romantic gestures. But I don’t. Oh, I would love that – sometimes. But other times I just want to fuck, no big romantic gestures required. I want to be interrupted even when he thinks I look busy. I want to be grabbed because he just cannot possibly wait to have me. I want him to ruin dinner.
Of course, none of this is especially realistic with two young children in our home. But they do go to sleep at a decent hour. While the night is still young.
I’ve talked to John about this. I’ve told him what I want. And it works… but it doesn’t stick. Kind of like many other conversations we have. He listens and maybe it sinks in… but before long, it’s out of his mind and gone… until the next time I talk to him about said topic.
However, I have discovered that if I ‘give up’ and stop talking about something for a while, eventually he may raise the issue himself. I feel that this is a miraculous revelation. And it’s great because sometimes, I’m done with talking.
If the words ‘I love you’ are muttered so often, so automatically, so habitually without thought, they lose meaning. I’m guilty of this, too. It’s a reflex… like saying goodbye. In fact, it is goodbye. Iloveyoubye. It’s a single word. A word that ends of every phone call. The last word John and I say to each other every time one of us leaves the house without the other.
[Aside: I tell my children I love them all the time but somehow, it seems to hold meaning with them. And I can’t imagine taking that away because it’s something I didn’t have as a child. My parents loved me – they just didn’t say it.]
I have been with John longer than I was ever with anyone before him. We bought a house. We got married. We made babies. We love our children. And I cannot imagine my life without him. And I love him. And he loves me.
Are we in love?
I really don’t know. Maybe I never knew. I do know that I am in love with being in love. And that blurs things. It fucks with your head. It fucks with my head.
Some days, all of this gets to me and I feel terrible, lonely, broken.
Other days, I half-way accept that this is just what my life is and try not to let it break me.
Still other days, I take control of whatever I can to steer my life toward what I want it to be, whether those efforts stick or not.
And some days, John does or says something that makes me feel so good that I nearly cry. Just some random, no-explanation thing that gives me deep-inside happiness. The kind of happiness that I don’t think happens every day for anyone – and I wouldn’t want it every day because it would lose its magic.
Do I want more? Yes, sometimes I do want more. But no matter what anyone claims, we all want more sometimes – more of any of a billion different things, but more nonetheless.
I will even admit that I have thought about having my needs met by another. But it never goes past thinking. I’m no angel but I don’t think I could go through with it. And it’s not like I’ve got a willing partner waiting for me to abandon my morals anyway. [Although the phrase ‘abandon my morals’ sounds fucking great right now.]
But I would not want to hurt John. I love him.
So… John and I will talk. About us, sometimes. But also about anything other than children and finances. We will laugh. I will hide in a pillow against his shoulder when The Walking Dead makes me squirm. And he might even laugh at me for it because that’s exactly who we are. We will not have date nights because we both think the idea is ridiculous. [If it works for you, go for it. It’s not for us.] And we will take care of each other because that’s who we are, too.
We may not be crazy uncontrollable hormonal teenagers in the back seat of mom’s borrowed car…
But at the end of the day… every day… I’m happy I crawl into bed beside him.