The Greener Grass

I remember hearing a comic say that when you are single, all you see are couples. When you are married, all you see are whores. Or something like that.

I sure know that when you’ve been married 22 years, you think that there must be wonderful things about being single that you are missing out on. Freedom, an exciting social life, dating new, exciting people and sleeping around. But there is something else married people are missing. Crushing loneliness.

Of course, if your spouse runs off with someone else or dies, you have no choice. But my husband is sleeping at his brother’s. Why? Because he did something I didn’t like and I am a vicious bitch who won’t let it go.

We are really sick of  arguing with each other. Sick of life. Sick of our running streak of bad luck, including the stress of having a teenager with a chronic illness. I don’t see how we’ve made it this long, actually. And it this point, it could go either way.

But there’s a part of me, the part that hates change, the girl that married at 20, that misses her groom. People change, people have all kinds of crisis, not just the mid-life kind, and people do stupid things. Do you throw away half a lifetime over what, in the big picture, are probably small things? A lot of people do. Some fall out of love. I wish I knew what was happening to us. I don’t. I only know I wish he was here, even if just to ignore me talking. Apparently I am set in my ways.

I wonder what will happen if he doesn’t come home. He might be able to move on, but I feel sort of paralyzed. On the other hand, if he does come home, I want to feel happy about it. I want to be thrilled. I want him to love me enough to marry me all over again. Most of all, I want to be worthy of it. I want to make him happy too. I just have this fear of an awkward silence, a moment when we realize there isn’t anything left to build on, the sadness of walking away. It would hurt less to just stay alone. I am afraid of high hopes. You know what happens when you fly too close to the sun.

Sex With Myself

Sex is great, I think we can all agree on that. Most of the time, anyway. There is the excitement and headrush of being with someone new or the content, loving arms of someone familiar.

It’s sex by yourself that gets weird. We all do it… and differently I would suppose. I’ve never known a blind man to blame masturbation for his condition, or proof of any of those other myths about touching yourself. Apparently some people have issues with it. What’s the big deal? It’s your body.

I know for me it is almost an afterthought at times, something to do because I’m bored and need a thrill. But even if I lit candles and dressed up, it would be predictable and thus, disappointing, because I know exactly what I’m going to do. I don’t get lonely, as my fantasies usually involve at least one other person. But I can totally read my own mind. There’s no mystery… and not even the best R&B can solve that.

Sex alone becomes routine, but we all still go back. The way a hungry person finds the refrigerator. It’s just so efficient. No need to bother your partner, if you have one. But there’s no cuddling or whispers afterward. There’s no phone call or flowers the next morning, no matter how great it was. I know I am not the only one who looks in the mirror and feels a little used. I might as well keep a $50 on the dresser just to emphasize the cold and business-like way I treat myself. I have to come to terms with the fact that sex with myself is basically a booty call.

She’s In The Cornfield Now

Many people may not have read my previous post “Not Even Impending Death Can End Bitter Feelings” but it might help to understand this one: Here’s a link:

http://ocdiva.wordpress.com/2007/11/26/not-even-impending-death-can-end-bitter-feelings/

I wonder, can you wish someone dead? Time finally ran out for my former friend, Ann, last week. She was 53.  I don’t have any details, and didn’t find out until yesterday.

But I have a creepy feeling because I used to sit and wish her gone, gone, gone. To the cornfield. Just go away, I would think, just die. And now, she is dead. Gone. Forever.

I guess I am supposed to feel sad, or guilty, or something. But I don’t. I still feel like if you are a manipulative and cold person and you get cancer, then you are just a manipulative and cold person with cancer. I’m sure there are occasions where the fear of death forces people to change, but I can’t see Ann being one of those people.

In fact, I would bet good money that she told the Grim Reaper how to do his job. And I don’t get the feeling she is in Heaven, being reunited with her mother and sister… nor do I get the impression that she is in Hell. Karma took care of her in this life. The fact that I took joy in it though probably means I have a big dose of Karma coming my way now. Whatever. I am human. I just hope she isn’t a ghost because she would be in a perfect position to barge in whenever she wants and haunt me. Like she did when she was here.

I really believe she went out like a light bulb. A bug on a car window. An old sick cow in the pasture. And now she is nowhere. Like we all will be, one day. For all our thoughts, hopes, dreams, experiences and sentiment, in a sense, we are all just an electrical charge waiting to burn out. And I actually find that much more comforting than eternal awareness.

My husband took some time and got in touch with Ann when she was sick. I guess it made him feel better. All I could think was, she used us and betrayed my friendship. How has cancer changed that? He is much more forgiving than I am. And probably has better Karma.

I am just left wondering how I can get my stuff back.