Yesterday
was my 15th wedding anniversary - a big number. It is the number of years my son has been
alive. It is also the number of rugby
players on the field at any given time.
It is also the age of a Hispanic girl’s quinceañera. It is also the atomic number of
phosphorous. All of these things have
about the same merit.
Yesterday
was another marital milestone. It was
the one year anniversary of the last time I had sex.
Partially,
this abstinence is by choice. I don’t
want to sleep with my husband. I don’t
mean to sound rude, but even the old lady next door asked me today if my
husband knew how ridiculous he looked with his beard and his fat belly.I also don't have sex with people I don't talk to, so that sort of counts him out, since he's never home. Regardless of what I say here, I sound either bitchy or just frigid. I am
neither and both. I have gone beyond the
point of caring, which is obviously not good.
I know
the celibacy anniversary date only because we went to concert last year on our anniversary, and I
often use the ticket stub as a bookmark.
When I told him about it yesterday, he said (and I quote) “it feels more
like five years.” That’s it. That’s all he said. I don’t even know what that means. It makes me want to vomit.
I need
a new love life. Maybe if I had a
husband who cared about me and spent time with me, I wouldn’t be publishing
this kind of personal baggage on the internet via a blog, but he doesn’t read
it anyway. He doesn’t care what I do, as
long as I raise his children and pretend to listen to him when he’s home (which
is very, very rarely).
I’m
ready to be done and move on. I’ve told
him that, and he doesn’t argue, so … I guess that’s that. The anniversary, then, is one of new freedom
to pursue myself again rather than trying to resuscitate a corpse. That renewal is both personally invigorating
and deeply sad.
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