This conversation may or may not have recently been overheard in a bowling alley somewhere in Central Florida…
Husband (channeling Beavis): Heh. Look at your score. Heh.
Wife: Yes, I know. You’re beating me. Again.
Husband: Heh. Heh. No. Look.
Wife: (rolling my her eyes right out myher head) Oh Jesus. What are you, 12?
Husband: Heh. heh.
Wife: Yeah. I get it. I have 69 points. 69. I get it.
Husband: Heh. Heh.
Wife: And no, by the way.
Husband: I was just…
Wife: No. Look, I don’t like your ass in my face.
Husband: Uh, actually..
Wife: No. Seriously. I’m sorry, I’ve been meaning to tell you this. I love you, I do. But I do not want to look at your asshole.
Husband: No, you don’t under…
Wife: I’m sorry. It’s not you. You? Very cute. It’s just - ew. And if you’re down there and I have to look directly into your asshole - it just ruins the whole mood for me.
Husband: That’s not…
Wife: Please don’t be offended. That’s just too close to a rectum for me. OK?
I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve been running my ass off for the last several weeks.
I’ve driven hundreds of fucking miles. I’ve circled the airport terminal more times than I care to count. I’ve washed sheets and remade guest beds. I’ve planned outings and excursions and meals from a pantry that hasn’t been stocked in 3 weeks. I’ve been to the beach for something like 96 hours. I’ve spent another 57 or so at one amusement park or another.
Oh. And? I’ve been working full time.
My days have consisted of getting up, going to work, rushing home to entertain, collapsing into bed, and getting up the next morning to do the whole fucking thing over again.
Except on weekends. On those special days I have gotten up, dashed off to the most recent tourist attraction, and entertained until my feet cried and I eventually fell asleep.
Oh. And? Gotten up extra early two Saturdays to keep an appointment that you made, but couldn’t be bothered to get your happy fucking ass home in time for.
As absolutely ecstatic as I am to have been able to spend this time with family and friends, here’s a news flash for you: I’m tired. Fucking exhausted. I spend the afternoons and evenings fantasizing about some much needed and too long postponed down time.
I’m hanging on by my toe nails here, and feeling guilty as hell because I don’t feel like I have enough to give.
So excuse the fuck out of me if you’re offhanded remark that I haven’t “talked to you much” lately irked me, just a tad. And I am so, so terribly sorry that your observation that I don’t seem like I “really want to” spend time with your parents pushed me over the damned edge.
Hello? Was that not me that just spent alllll weekend between tourist destinations? Was that not me that got the guest room ready one more fucking time and restocked towels on more fucking time and offered to drive to the airport one more fucking time in preparation of their arrival? Was that not me that was home and making plans for dinner long before you brought your happy oblivious ass home from work?
Don’t you fucking dare act like I haven’t been just as much (if not more, fuck you very much) involved with their visit. That was ME that encouraged them to stay for 12 days instead of 6 - remember? That was ME that assured them they were ALWAYS welcome in our home, no matter how much company we’d had before. And it was ME who gave them lists and lists and lists of things that they could do.
And now you’re going to play the “see, this is why I don’t talk about my feelings” card?
PuhLEEEEEZE.
Play that passive aggressive manipulation game on someone who hasn’t seen your ability to turn a cold shoulder to my responses. Maybe they will believe that you’re just so damned sensitive, you simply can’t stand the idea of anything you doing upsetting me.
You don’t “talk about your feelings” because you’re afraid of your big bad wife? You’re afraid you’ll have to “deal with [me] feeling inadequate”? Oh boo fucking hoo. Seriously. I have neither the time nor the energy to deal with that bullshit right now.
And do you know WHY?
Because for the next 6 days, I will be spending time with our family.
Asshole.
Signed,
Your Wife
PS: You should seriously consider investing in a day planner. And schedule the last three days of the month or so that your wife will be hormonally incapable of dealing with your shit. FYI.
A few nights ago, I collapsed into bed at the end of a three day tourist marathon. I was exhausted. And possibly… maybe… a tiny bit irritable.
I felt the black hand of death my husband’s warm touch on my back.
“I love you,” he hissed.
“Have you lost your fucking mind?”
I bolted up right in bed and launched into a tirade. About how tired I was. About how hard this was getting. About how it just wasn’t fair and he didn’t understand and how many times had he been to the airport in the last two weeks because I was about to make trip number six and did he really think that going about his merry fucking way all damn day without hardly a word at me while I tried to stay afloat was considered good foreplay?!? Seriously?!?!
I rolled over and ripped the covers back to my side of the bed, snapping my eyes shut. I heard him whisper something that sounded like an apology before I fell asleep.
The next night, at a surprisingly early hour, he walked in the door with a 12 pack of Diet Coke.
And 12 of my most favorite flowers in the whole world.
And I remembered how damned good it felt to be heard.
Amy wrote a post recently about what it sounds like to not be heard. It was disheartening to read how many people could relate to what she said in her comments. Disheartening, because it reminded me how desperately we all need that - and how rare it is to truly get it.
How, more often it seems, we’re told “it’s no big deal”. Or met with a blank expression when we express ourselves. Or - worst of all - never even asked how we’re doing. I hear over and over again from people (women especially) who feel like they’re going through their lives completely unnoticed, unappreciated, unheard.
That’s my recurring nightmare.
I wake up in a cold sweat, screaming and crying, but no sound coming from my lips. I spend hours in my sleep desperately trying to get the people around me to hear me. To care. To notice.
And when they do, I can feel the weight lifted. A box of soda and a few long stemmed roses did more to revitalize me than a three day vacation ever could. Because it meant that he had heard. He had listened. And it mattered.
What do you need someone to hear?
Whatever it is, you can say it here. Right here.
And I promise no one will tell you it’s no big deal.
Eight years ago today, two scared kids stood at the front of an overcrowded church and promised, before God and family and friends and their 3 month old baby in a swing in the back, to love, honor and cherish one another forever.
Five years later, those same two people stood at the front of a nearly empty church, in front of God and their parents and grandparents and a priest, and promised that they would continue keeping those vows.
But it is not either of those days that I am drawn to remember today, on my eighth wedding anniversary.
Today my thoughts are consumed with memories of my last anniversary and the stark contrast it is with this one.
Last year on March 11th, we were desperately trying to enjoy our Vegas vacation. I had just seen Prince for the first time and we were spending the evening together amidst a carefully concocted romantic environment.
We would have dinner at a small restaurant in the Paris hotel and ride to the top of the mock Eiffel Tower. As we gazed out over our own City of Lights, my husband would quickly bend down on one knee and present me with my anniversary present - an upgraded diamond set inside my original and newly repaired wedding band. At the end of the night, we would stroll hand in hand back to our suite at Bally’s and spend the night doing what couples do on their anniversary.
It should have been the perfect anniversary.
This year, my little brother is staying with us. In two days, my dad and his wife will be starting their visit. We won’t be heading out for a weekend getaway, or even dinner alone for at least another month. He will be working, as will I, and we will spend the evening at home, laughing and talking and enjoying the time we have left with Creed. We’ll go to bed later than we should, kiss each other goodnight, and snuggle in close as we try to get as much sleep as possible before we both have to get up for work the next morning.
There will be no presents or cards, as we’re planning to gouge into our savings for a pool soon and the rest of our disposable income is being swallowed up by entertaining out of town visitors.
By all accounts, it should be a very unremarkable anniversary.
And yet, in every way that last year’s anniversary was an utter disaster, this year is a triumphant success.
Last year, we both had agreed to ignore the fact that I had pronounced my desire for a divorce less than a month earlier. We were determined to put our disappointment and uncertainty in a Box To Be Dealt With Later and celebrate that, at least, we had made it this far.
This year, there is a new sense of appreciation as we reminisce openly about what we almost lost. It’s impossible to keep the gratitude out of my voice as I replay for him what the last year has meant to me.
Last year, we avoided each other’s gaze over dinner and clumsily held hands across the table. Every time we touched it stung like an insult to past intimate moments. We struggled through the insincerity and pretended not to notice the confusion in one another’s eyes.
Now, I find strength in a quick peck on the top of my head. I close my eyes and soak up the warmth of resting, just for a moment, with my arms around his waist and my cheek against his back while he makes coffee at 6 in the morning. I get lost in the easy comfort of sitting beside him, his presence alone enough to make me feel safe.
There is no pretense needed between us now. When he’s been talking about work for far too long, I can tell him with the assurance that he is trying to hear me. When I remind him that I love him, there is no question in his eyes that he knows this to be true. When we catch each other’s eye across two blond heads that refuse to sit still, there is a shared understanding that we’re in this together. Forever.
Forever.
That word means more now than it did eight years ago. We know better the bitterness of “in good times and in bad”. We know too, our own strength. Our faith is no longer only in a promise made, but in the fight we’ve seen in one another since that vow was taken. Our gratitude has grown from the smugness of youth who have “found” the “right person” into the humble realization that you’ve been given, blessed, with a fortitude of grace and good fortune to survive.
This year we celebrate without candles or lights or jewels. And we remember that it is not the fancy dinners or the elaborate vacations… or anything externally that we carry from year to year with us.
But it is Us. It is the good times, and the bad. It is the ease and the struggle. It is the hope and the promise and the work and the conflict.
When we last left off I was hiding out on the patio, pretending to listen to Adam on the phone while my mind spun with how I was going to explain to my husband the scene he’d just walked in on.
It’s not everyday you surprise your wife in the middle of a naked photo shoot.
I finished what had to be my tenth cigarette in 15 minutes and decided it was probably time to go back inside and face the music. I strolled casually by my husband, who had returned to watching TV on the couch, and flashed him an unconvincing “this is not at all awkward” smile as I hung up the phone.
I couldn’t tell by the look on his face if he was trying not to laugh or suppressing the urge to interrogate me. There may have also been a glimmer of hope that he had just interrupted what was meant to be a sexy surprise for him. I knew I had to shatter those dreams as quickly as possible.
“So… umm… you might be wondering…” I stammered.
“I’m curious,” he admitted.
In a rush I tried to explain what I was doing, frantic to get to the end before the words “naked” and “internet” had a chance to raise any red flags in his head.
“It’s for my blog. It’s not trashy, I promise. Totally tactful. Body image thing. Acceptance. I thought a picture would help. Not showing anything though, really. It’s not bad. I’ll show you. I promise. I know it sounds weird.”
He raised an eyebrow at me and I could tell he was struggling to maintain an uninterested look. “Do you need any help?”
“No! It’s not like that.” I rolled my eyes, grateful to be able to grasp the high ground as I shot him my most superior “you are sooo immature” glare.
He chuckled under his breath and went back to his Survivor Man marathon. I flounced back into the bedroom, reminding him to “leave me the hell alone so I can finish this up”. Ah, yes. Nothing like a little defensive superiority to mask humiliation.
Alone again in my bedroom, I locked the door. And checked it. And relocked it. And checked it again. When I was confident it was finally secure this time, I slid a dresser in front of it.
I quickly snapped another ten shots and determined that surely there would be something in here I could Photoshop the hell out of use as a symbol of acceptance. Besides, the longer I stayed in the bedroom alone, the heavier the weight of the curiosity from the other room became.
I got dressed, removed the camera from the tripod, and went out to the kitchen to begin perusing the proofs on the laptop.
I experimented with new Photoshop actions. I desaturated and added contrast. I softened and compared and eliminated potentials until I had narrowed the field to two basic concepts: a back shot and one from the front.
“Would you like to see these and help me choose what to put on the blog?”
He smirked as he pulled himself off the couch and came to stand behind me.
“Hmm. I don’t know. Whatever you think.”
“You have no opinion?”
“They all look nice,” he responded as he put his arms around me and snuggled in close to my back.
“Does this bother you at all?”
“What? No. Of course not.”
“Well, I just wanted to be sure. I mean, it is the Internet.”
“Honey, they’re beautiful and not at all tasteless. You’re fine,” he assured me.
His ease and nonchalance renewed my confidence. He kissed the top of my head and disappeared back into the living room, leaving me to put the finishing touches on the picture and the words that would accompany it.
I continued the Photoshopping and deliberating, occassionally calling into the other room, “you’re sure this is OK?”, which would be met with a “whatever you want babe” and one “you’re not selling them, are you? Can you sell stuff like that?”
I eventually made my decision and posted the back shot along with the letter. I hit publish and called Jared back into the room for one final vote of approval.
“That’s great babe. Really. You did a good job.”
“Thank you honey. That means a lot to me.”
“Are you ready for bed?” he asked. I wondered briefly if I’d just seen him wag his eyebrows at me.
“Yeah, let me shut this down and I’ll be right there.”
I finished up the last few emails of the night and shut down the computer. I returned to the bedroom and slid underneath the covers beside my husband.
“I think it’s amazing how supportive you are, I just want you to know that.”
“I like to see you naked,” he breathed as he laced his arm around my waist.
“I know you do baby. And I love you, really, I do, and -”
“I love you too,” he whispered.
“Oh, we’re not having sex.”
The eyebrow wagging was immediately replaced by a look of utter shock.
“But… but… the… the naked… you’re… and…”
“Honey, I’ve felt like I’ve had to poop for three days now. Do you have any idea how uncomfortable it is to have sex when you think you could poop at any minute?”
“Jesus Britt!”
“What?”
“You just.. you write that stuff… your posts… you say these… but shit. Seriously?” he stammered. “You can’t.. not like… I mean you just don’t SAY stuff like THAT!”
“I’m sorry, is there a better way to say I’m too constipated for sex?”
With a snort and a heavy sigh, he rolled over, shaking his head at my complete and utter confusion.
And he never told me.
Is there a better way to say you’re too constipated to have sex?
(Hello woman who took months to learn how to make guacamole properly.)
Fortunately, I am hopelessly naive optimistic and it never occurred to me that this whole undertaking might be awkward. At least, it didn’t… until I got home and found myself trying to figure out how I would stage a Playboy photo shoot in my house without anyone noticing. How hard can that possibly be?
The first sign of trouble was my husband deciding to get home from work early. He’s been working long hours lately and I had assumed I’d have plenty of time to take the pictures, photoshopicize them, and then show him how delightfully tactful this whole endeavor would be. In my head, the plan was flawless and not at all embarrassing.
As he sat there on the couch prattling on about the details of his day, I recited potential explanations to myself.
“Could you give the kids a bath while I run in the other room and snap a few nude shots? Should only take a minute. Once I upload them to the web, maybe we can watch a movie.”
“Oh, by the way, I picked up milk. And your mom called. Oh, and I’m going to be naked in the other room with a camera and a tripod for a little bit. But don’t worry, it’s totally tasteful. Are you working Saturday?”
I half considered not offering any explanation as I simply marched the tripod past him and disappeared into the bedroom for a while. But I was fairly confident I wouldn’t be willing to live up to the assumptions he’d be making about our plans for later that night. Letting your husband’s mind wander freely with visions of you and a tripod is never a good idea.
I finally decided to wait until he was good and distracted with something on TV and casually let him know that, “I’m going to be in the other room for a little bit. Can you make sure the kids wash their hair?”
I closed the bedroom door behind me and twisted the lock as quietly as I could. I stripped down and tried to avoid my reflection in the mirror as I began testing the camera settings and adjusting the lighting.
And the cycle began. I’d set the timer, run in front of the camera, twist myself into a series of the least revealing poses I could imagine in 2 second intervals, and ran back to check the results in the playback screen.
I tried to remind myself this was supposed to be about acceptance as I furiously deleted shot after shot of fat roll. Why the fuck was the camera insistent on focusing on my stomach? I wondered if I would ruin this whole grand experiment if I stopped to put on a full face of makeup. When the hell did I get back fat?!?!
I was mid way through trying to find a setting that would not add 5 pounds to my thighs when it happened.
I first heard about the BlogHer “Letter To My Body” Initiative over at Joy Unexpected. I’m following suit because I think it’s a brilliant cause, and one more women should embrace. It’s something my mother would be proud of.
Dear Body,
You have had to live with a lot of expectations. From me, from men, from other women - everyone has their own demands on you.
I should warn you, that’s probably not going to change.
My children will still expect you to push beyond your limits because they need us, even when we’re tired. Men will continue to expect you to hold on to our youth and never show any signs of wear. And other women? Well, I hate to tell you, but it seems that is just getting worse. They want you to be taller. And slender. And strong. And if you can manage it? Bullet proof skin would be a plus.
Thank God we still have Jared. He’s loved you in every shape and form. Even when I couldn’t stand to look at you anymore.
About that…
I have expected more of you than anyone. And I have ignored you and given you little appreciation for your successes.
When you were young and vibrant, your muscles taut and your skin still smooth, I berated you for your lack of lankiness. When your hips rounded long before child birth, I chastised you for ignoring the waif trend that was so prominent among teenage girls. I tried desperately to disguise you, with push up bras and jeans meant to elongate your naturally short legs. I didn’t appreciate your energy and stamina until they started to fade.
And, let’s be honest, when you were at your most vulnerable… I used you.
Worse than that, I let other people use you. I yielded you as a weapon. I let your value be judged by people who had no business doing so. For years I ignored how precious you are and sent you out as the guinea pig to see how dangerous the rest of the world could be. I tried to deny that you were intricately a part of Me, so that I didn’t have to face what I was putting you through.
And somehow, you survived. And I continued to take you for granted.
When you carried my children, reinventing yourself almost over night in order to meet their needs, I cried when you began to show signs of strain. I labeled your swelling and stretch marks as scars of weakness, ignoring the strength you exhibited by nurturing those two beautiful people inside you.
When you made soft places for those babies to lay their heads, I grew angry with you for your insistence on adapting.
And then I took control of you. I changed our diet drastically and melted 40 lbs from your frame. For the first time, I was finally pleased with you… because you were finally living up to everyone else’s standards.
Ah, that honeymoon period was sweet.
Of course, you and I know that behind closed doors, you’ve once again fallen short. We know that underneath my size six jeans, I hide your butt - that would sooner swallow a quarter than bounce one. We know that inside the Victoria Secret Secret Embrace bra, your breasts have become deflated and empty.
We know that your skin is sagging. We know that you’ve suddenly seem to become obsessed with new ways to sprout hair faster than I can remove it. We know that the excuses of pregnancy and child birth can no longer justify the potato sack you’ve attached beneath your belly button.
But I want to tell you, for once, for the first time…
That’s OK.
Really. Because those expectations that people have for you? They’re nothing more than a fantasy anyway. Other bodies don’t look like that either - not without surgery and airbrushing. Trust me. I have seen Cindy Crawford and Jennifer Love Hewitt (thank you Internet)… and you’re not doing too badly.
Are your boobs deflated? Sure they are. They’ve fed two children. But they also still spark at the touch and add to your uniquely feminine silhouette.
The extra width of your hips is what creates that beautifully melodic line when you lay on your side.
Your legs bear the signs of a woman who has learned to stand on them, on her own.
The new whispers of lines around your eyes are a reminder that you have lived more, laughed more, and cried more than a younger version of you. They remind your children that you have seen enough to offer them guidance.
Your hands have begun to look less like your daughter’s, and more like your mother’s… which is at it should be as you stop needing a caretaker and become one.
Are you aging and sagging and adding to your fat storage? Sure you are. You no longer need the defense of hard lines. Our life is now filled with people who need the comfort and warmth that your softening provides. The energy you exuded in your younger years is slowly being tempered by a calm, more quiet confidence that grows from experience.
“I remember the first time I laid with you like this…”
His voice cut through the darkness and the muffled sounds of two people kissing.
My heart swelled with such force that it instantly became difficult to catch my next breath. In the blink of an eye, the entire world fell away and there was nothing else but those words. I could feel the sound of his words already being etched into my memory.
“I remember the first time…”
The ability to speak came back to me as my eyes searched for his. “You do?”
I watched, transfixed, as the muscles in his face relaxed and a smile sparked in his gaze.
“Of course I do. I remember the first time you let me kiss you. And I remember… this. God, I wanted this so badly… I was… so nervous…” his voice trailed off into his own memories of past anxieties.
My mind began to turn back, searching for the moment he remembered. It swept past the years and the children and the monotony of married life. It flipped quickly through the pages filled with shame from an unplanned pregnancy and my regret that I would never live The Fairytale. I trudged through the awkward months when we had teetered between friends and lovers and exes. Back, still further I went, before a painful breakup and an adolescent betrayal. Back I went, 11 years into the past… and I found myself singing along to Deana Carter beside him as he drove me to school in his old car.
And I remembered. I remembered how alive I felt sitting in the car beside him whenever we went somewhere together. I remembered the nights when my cheeks practically ached from smiling, which was all I could manage to do when he looked at me like that - beaming confidence and self assurance. I could feel the familiar pounding in my chest and fluttering in my stomach as I tried to guess what he might be thinking. I wanted so badly then to know what he might be feeling when he was with me.
“I don’t know how it happened, how we ended up here…” his voice snapped me back into the present, into the dark bedroom in our home where he was still smiling at me. The smile was now colored with something unexpected, an unmistakable mix of relief and gratitude.
In a rush, I felt the memories I’d just revisited changing. They suddenly became deeper, richer, fleshed out with a glimpse into what he had been feeling and thinking all those years ago.
“I remember…” he said again, and my whole body ached with the realization that he must have carried those thoughts with him through the following 11 years.
And he had them with him still - with us, here, in this quiet dark bedroom.
While I interviewed Kelly (and seriously - those of you who went over there and commented, you really are my bestest friends!), I also had the opportunity to be interviewed by Emily - another blogger I’d never met before.
She posted by my interview on her site originally, but I’ve decided to repost it here.
Emily did an excellent job of interviewing (ie - there is stuff here you might not know… including the story of how I came to work for a blogger.) and I’m thinking about chucking this sales gig and becoming a full time interviewee. I wonder how many paparazzi I can attract in suburban Florida?
I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this, but I have two small children.
And my husband? He has the world’s shittiest work schedule.
And me? I’m kind of a needy, whiny bitch.
All of this is kind of a recipe for a Marriage Disaster, where no one wins and someone just doesn’t feel like it because I’m just freaking tired, OK!?!?!
Ahem. ANYway, we’ve decided to be a little proactive in the Marriage Department and institute Date Night (where we = me and decided = announced that you’re taking me out, so man up.)
Monday Nights have now become Date Night, because as odd as it sounds that is the night that is the easiest for us to find a sitter and get away for a few hours. We decided to alternate the planning responsibilities where one week is my choice and the next week is his (again, see definitions of for “we” and “decided”), because surely that would make Date Night even more fun for everyone (which is not at all the same as “I am not going to be the only one making a freaking effort, m’kay?”).
I went first and sent us off for a classic Dinner and A Movie evening. Considering we hadn’t seen a movie in a real live theater since Men In Black 2, I figured it would be a good start. Lovely time had by all, even though the movie sucked ass, blah blah blah The End.
Fast forward to this week, and His Choice.
We started the evening at Applebee’s. Because we are classy like that.
We talked and we laughed and I couldn’t tell you for the life of me what was discussed. But I know it had nothing to do with work, which means it was heavenly.
After dinner, my perfectly romantic husband whisked me away to the next stage of the evening… where any illusions I was clinging to about someday having a reason to wear a Little Black Dress were completely shattered.
Now, sure, bowling sounds like a fun night. Romantic? No. Something different and fun? OK.
Unless of course you KNOW ME and know that a) I suck ASS at bowling and b) I do not DO things at which I SUCK ASS!
No. Really.
I ripped off my damn fingernail. Half way down my damn finger. Do you have any idea how badly that hurts?? Can you even begin to fathom the humiliation that comes from having to ask the bowling alley manager for a First Aid Kit?!?
Do you have any idea how much that interferes with one’s ability to bowl with any degree of skill??
Allow me to demonstrate.
My husband? With no injury? Bowls like this:
And then, there’s me, with no fucking thumb nail:
I think I am completely justified in planning a viewing of 27 Dresses for next Monday. And he will buy me popcorn, too.
