|Public Domain Image from Wikipedia|
Don’t worry, folks, I’m not really back on the market (or to my stalkers I should say, “don’t get excited”).
I’ve just been thinking randomly here lately. Once upon a time, I would go home or to bed or behind a building with someone I met at a bar or a party or job corps or a mutual friend’s home. All that changed in 2006.
If you readers will remember, husband and I conceived a baby early in ’06 that I subsequently miscarried. To that point, I’d been faithful to him for a few years, but after we lost the baby a rift grew for a period of a few months. During that time, he moved back to Arkansas and I moved back to Oklahoma.
I didn’t hook up with anyone in Oklahoma; I was too busy working and working and, in my free time, working. But, when I decided to move back to Arkansas, I discovered pretty quickly that he wasn’t ready for exclusivity again so soon, and I did meet a guy at work, but the single encounter left a great deal to be desired and I found myself comparing that contemptible Casanova to the husband I’d elevated to a pedestal and I found this new guy lacking. Not that praising him would have mattered anyway; the guy went back to his ex-girlfriend within days of laying me down.
So I went back to pining for husband in spite of his need to remain a swingin’ bachelor, and Luna was conceived. At that point, I couldn’t even imagine consummating a relationship with another lover, even if he could. I remained loyal to him in spite of our tribulations, and my doltish devotion actually paid off the following year when he surprised me with marriage.
Once that symbolic piece of imported, hand-crafted silver was placed on the second finger from the left side of my left hand, a customary place for mainstream American married couples, I suddenly lost all sight of that trampy trollop I once was.
Normally, I don’t look upon those years with awe and longing (quite the contrary, in fact). Sometimes, though, conversations with friends lead my mind down that road, wondering why I have the morals I have, why I stick to the rules I’ve put in place for myself, and why I get so chagrined at the thought of my husband even talking to another sexual someone.
I don’t consciously want to date again, mind you. I mean, aside from the moral dilemma such a scenario would present, have you looked at me lately? Motherhood and time have taken a toll on my body. I have highways of stretchmarks mapping out the gain and loss (and gain again) of several humans’ worth of weight, and byways of scars both figurative and self-inflicted. My tits hang low (yes, they do wobble to and fro, lopsidedly); although, to be fair to Father Time, they’ve been hanging low pretty much since I woke up with them one morning when I was ten. Because of my aversion to shaving and an apparent hormonal imbalance, there are parts of me that are hairy enough to make Sasquatch question his manhood. I’ve got a fat ass, stringy un-brushed hair, crooked yellow teeth, jagged finger- and toenails…and have you caught a whiff of me recently…?
I know I’m being unduly nitpicky; I’m my own worst critic at every turn, but my point is, who but the man that loves me could pound me on the kitchen table with the lights on for the better part of an hour and enjoy every minute of it?
There are people that I’ve met in the last four years that insist they find me attractive; there are people I knew once upon a time that found me attractive. Incubi and innamorati show up in my dreams. I have celebrity crushes. But if any of these real or imagined people were alone with me in a room and actually willing to give it the ol’ college try…the guilt and shame would drive me insane, or at least into a depression and confession–this I’m certain of.
Maybe no one would ever find out…but I would know. I couldn’t do that to husband; I’d hate him if he did that to me. It’s tempting sometimes to play the “what if…?” game during masturbatory fantasies…
Fall Out Boy–I’m just a notch in your bedpost, but you’re just a line in a song.