There in the darkness, we lay naked on the bed, bare bottom pressed to skin. I ran my leg over his smooth back, letting him know I was interested in a seduction.
Or something like that.
The truth behind this scenario differs slightly from the Cinemax version above. I was naked because I accidentally bumped the shelf beside my bed and knocked a can of Diet Coke all over myself. My bare butt was pressed against him because the two of us cram into a queen-sized bed, and I like to spread out.
I did put my leg over him in an effort to initiate sex… but it was a hairy leg, and I less ran it than I did fling it. And I did it out of boredom, not a burning lust for my husband, who was sound asleep with his CPAP mask on. When this smooth move failed to awaken his desire, I rotated a little more and slung my leg over his shoulder, with my foot hanging directly in front of his face. It was comfortable, and he was asleep anyway.
This is year 12 of marriage – the stage where you are so in love, you just don’t give a shit anymore. And it’s wonderful.
“Dammit, I have told you if you get yourself Reese’s Cups, get me some, too. You better share that.” Having run out of things to argue about, this was our fight last night. I was mad, too. Who doesn’t buy extra Reese’s Cups? Asshole.
And when I’m mad at him, do I still write him long letters describing in detail my feelings about how he’s wronged me and how devastated I am that he would hurt me so? No. I watch all the TV shows we watch together without him. And then when I’m not mad at him anymore, I deny having done so. Because that’s how you get revenge when you are spurned 12 years into marriage.
It’s a time when cleaning the kitchen is more romantic than flowers. When you can say, “Does this rash look weird to you?” without killing the magic. When you fall asleep to the soothing sounds of “Forensic Files” because the drawl of the narrator’s voice is relaxing if you ignore the whole graphic descriptions of murder thing.
When you have been married for 12 years, you know everything there is to know about the other person. You’ve heard every story, you know them inside out. And then there comes a time you find yourself saying, “How did you never tell me you met Gloria Estefan?” and you are legitimately offended they withheld this info from you. Guess who’s watching “Designated Survivor” alone in secret tonight…?
Years 5 through 10 of marriage, you worry if the spark is gone. You spend time trying to reignite the passion and the newlywed bliss. Year 12, you settle into the comfort of knowing it’s gone. It’s not that you don’t still find your partner attractive or that marriage is this boring, passionless trap. It’s just that the friendship now means so much more than the attraction. You’re more than connected with this person now, you’re entwined with them. You are part of each other, and that is so much better than being swept off your feet.
Recently, I didn’t realize my iron had retained red dye from something, and I wrecked a lovey I was making for someone else. Something I was to give to the person in two hours, and I had to start all over again. My husband left for work, with me sitting on the floor, tears of frustration in my eyes. 15 minutes later, he showed back up with a new iron and a white raspberry mocha (my favorite.) 12 years of marriage means that giving your wife an iron when she needs it is so much sexier than bringing her a dozen roses.
So, keep the chocolates and flowers. Keep the passionate morning sex. Keep the spontaneity. Give me begrudgingly going and getting me coffee at 8 pm, yelling at the TV together, and occasionally taking a foot in the face because it’s a relaxing position for your partner. We have worked hard for boring. It takes a lot of effort to reach the stage where you are this comfortable with another human being, and we have earned every minute of our mundane.
Newlyweds, the excitement of getting to know each other is real. It’s fun to have a little mystery. But don’t be afraid of the day that the excitement gives way to true, honest friendship. Find someone who will thrill you now, and let you fling a hairy leg over them later.
This post was originally published on YMC: Motherhood Unfiltered.
About the Author
Heather is a freelance writer and mother of two young boys. She is a regular contributor to online parenting publications such as Yummy Mummy Club and the Savvymom group of sites. She has been a featured writer on the CBC, HuffPost, Ravishly, and others. Read more at hmjoneswriter.com.
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