The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

I find my way into the same old jam.

I hate the feeling of desensitization. It's hard to describe to others, particularly those who never feel twinges of anxiety or dread over simple things, and because of this, it is a lonely, cold feeling; desperate and terrifying.

I push on, though, because I've felt it before, and I'll feel it again, and in between all things are good. My back slightly aches from the excessive bits of chocolate over the past couple days, my g.b. admonishing me for being so indulgent, so weak in will. M. bought me a box of chocolates for Valentine's Day, as well as a dozen red roses, which were classic choices, but admittedly I was properly impressed. I love tradition, most of the time. Also, I can't help but love roses, particularly red ones which are a kind of luxurious, velvet-lipped redness that are unmatched by anything else in nature. I drink in the sweetness of them, the almost raspberry jam flavour of the perfume, and it makes me weak and dreamy, thinking about the romance of the red, the lusty skin of the petals. I never find them common or old.

I was ready for hot, messy sex last night, too. I was ready for it, thought about all the ways I could make him emit animal noises, and then the wind dropped and the sails went slack. My back started to hurt, I was tired, and I started to feel like it was too expected, like it were a chore rather than a privilege. I knew when he came to bed that he was expecting it, too, but I was suddenly bitter about how late it was, and then my mind started to gather all the things in our life which I find dissatisfying. I did not expect a proposal yesterday, and didn't want one either because Valentine's Day proposals nauseate me, second only to Christmas, which, incidently, was the day on which my sister got engaged eight years ago. No, I didn't want it, and even got a little nervous about the possibility of it, only to be relieved when I realized that it wasn't going to happen, which eventually turned to rage that it didn't occur to him at all. Now, I have to admit that I know I was being ridiculous, because I still am glad that he didn't do it, but I think that my mind went in the familiar direction of why hasn't he asked me yet?, what's he waiting for?, does he think I'm going to wait forever?. I know my man, and I know he considers us married, especially since he tells people I am his wife, but where is the pageantry? The enchantment? Are we past it?

Oh, probably.

I am envisioning something along the lines of city hall at this point, and the fact of the matter is that I don't even get excited by the idea of something more formal anymore. I am feeling old and jaded. I am feeling like afternoon, lunch-hour nuptials in an everyday dress kind of ceremony. I am feeling unspecial, and I am angry, especially since he was so much the romantic in the beginning of this love affair. Now, he is the doting father, the hugging partner, the guy who works until dinner time when he comes down, tells me about his day until it's time for him to put the wee one to bed. There is no sex on the kitchen floor or staircase. There are no finger-locked conversations over candlelight. I am his partner, the mother of his child and his family, now. I am not the woman he fantasizes about like he used to. Now that he has me, the mystery is done.

I am feeling overwhelmed with all of it today, though. I go from not caring what anyone thinks to worrying about it in about a millionth of a second. It shouldn't matter what anyone thinks, though, because the truth is that only the two involved in a relationship have access to all the facts. The thing is, I am tired of it. I am tired of constantly trying to assess my self-worth in the actions and words of others. With R., I eventually left, and I have to admit (only somewhat ashamed) that a part of me relished his tears when I did so. There was a part of me who liked the way that knife felt as it went in and twisted. I decided that he deserved it, all the anguish and trauma of having his comfortable life taken away, because he hadn't listened when I told him I was growing weary, and I'd suddenly mustered up a strength he hadn't counted on and in the process I took his, too. He cried, he went slightly mad, he would come to the house and look at me with huge, pleading eyes, but my hurt had robbed me of the love. I couldn't feel anything but resentment at sudden his awakening. Too late!, I'd thought to myself with a new kind of smugness. I can't believe I let you go, he'd wailed into the phone one summer evening. So, why did you? I'd asked with a soft mix of sympathy and rage. I don't know, he'd responded, I just didn't think you'd ever leave me. I thought we were good the way we were. What galled me about this the most was that I'd told him, I'd warned him and threatened him that one day it would be too late. He never thought I'd do it. His ego wouldn't let him entertain the possibility, and then I smashed that ego with one stinging clout. It felt good. It felt bad.

It's not like I'm thinking of doing the same thing in this relationship. For one thing, we have a child together and her interests supercede my own. For another, he treats me very well, listens more than any other person I've had in my life and genuinely seems interested in making me happy. This whole 'marriage' thing has as much to do with his hang-ups as my own, and I don't want him to do it just because it might make me happy. He has to want it, too. He has to be beyond his own drama. He has his own scars to tend to, and I am trying to be sensitive to that. He has endured a deep depression brought on by a marriage that failed to meet any of his expectations, not to mention the ultimate betrayal of infidelity on the part of his former wife who looked for comfort in a married co-worker. I am not the only person who has been hurt in the past. It can't just be about our child, the idea of marriage, at least not to me. It has to be because he really wants an entire life with me. He has to want to be a part of my successes as well as my failures, my laughter as well as my sadness. He has to be sure that he can handle all of it, forever. I need to be the only reason. I need to be the centre of his world. No, I do not think this is unreasonable. This is what marriage is about.

All of this, though, was too much for a night of naked sweat. He wrapped his arms around me, I put my head on his chest, I listened to his heart push and pulse, and I fell asleep to the music. If he was disappointed, he did not say, and for this, I am grateful. It makes me want him more, when he keeps the disappointments to himself.

I am constantly amazed by how my life doesn't seem to move in the direction that everyone else's around me does. I am always ahead or behind, never on the same train.

It makes me interesting, brings out the curiosity of those who always seem to be on schedule. It also makes me sad, and brings on the pity, which I don't want to need or believe in.

At the end of all of it, I just want what's real.