MY SINGLE LIFE

Three to four days a week I am single again. My husband leaves Monday morning for his new job, where he stays until Thursday or Friday night.

At first, I thought this would be a good thing. I'd get a break from having to come home and consider his feelings and communicate about our day. Because when you are married you have to do those things, I'm told. ALL THE TIME. Which, let's face it - can be EXCRUTIATING. I mean, didn't we talk about feelings last week? Or maybe it was last month, I'm not sure. But it sure seems like we JUST DID IT, because I remember being EXTREMELY uncomfortable. Besides, I've talked to people all day - most of them morons. My job, technically, is to communicate. So why would I want to do it when I come home? Why can't I just have a beer and watch television until it's time to have sex?

So I thought it wouldn’t be so bad coming home to an empty house where I didn't have to be nice to anyone and could sit in my underwear and eat microwave popcorn or cereal for dinner. I might even be able to watch a Project Runway marathon without having to deal with my husband’s constant eye-rolling.

This would also give me a chance to go out drinking with girlfriends, or take an exercise class, or anything else that I kept saying I wanted to do more of, but made the excuse that I couldn't because I needed to be home with my husband when in truth I was just too damned lazy. In fact, my husband would probably RELISH having me out of the house more often so he can watch the Military Channel without me rolling *my* eyes. Maybe he could also surf internet porn without having to listen to my constant commentary. Why are the men in porn flicks always so fucking ugly, by the way? Can’t they find guys with big dicks that don’t look like their parents were related and possibly marsupials? Women like porn too … give us something to look at that won’t make us want to become lesbians.

So the first week, I made plans with a couple of friends and signed up for a Zumba class. And I came to a realization. The reason I don't do this shit is because I hate it. I love my friends - don't get me wrong. But if I don't even like talking to my husband about our feelings after work, why would I want to hear about their feelings? I was exhausted by the end of the evening having to talk to TWO women about their feelings and pretend like I care. I thought at one point I’d have to call 911 as my brain might explode from all the SHARING. To make matters worse, they both hugged me at the end of the night. REALLY?

Zumba, with its shiny happy instructor, peppy music and complicated dance steps made me look like an uncoordinated, angry cow in a herd of Stepford wives. Who the fuck came up with this shit? Why do people try so fucking hard to make exercise FUN? It’s exercise … it isn’t supposed to be fun! All those smiling women in that class have to either be drunk or on a shit load of mood stabilizers. And the bitches didn’t give me any!

So the second week I decided I was just going to sit at home in my underwear and not talk to anyone or do anything. This was better, but also not ideal. No one was making fun of me for not shaving my legs, or stealing the remote out of my hands, or laughing at me because my boobs had flopped under my armpits. And I had no one to mock in return. Where could I direct my pent-up angst? Would I have to go outside and start beating up neighborhood children again?

Also, while microwave popcorn is a very tasty snack, it pales as a substitute for dinner three nights in a row. I missed my home cooked meals, and got wayyyyy to familiar with the acne-scarred “sandwich artist” at the Subway down the street. When he invited me to his winter formal, I knew I was in trouble.

I found myself not sleeping well either. Which pissed me off. When did I become one of those women who couldn't sleep well without a man? Was I that big of a wuss now that I needed the security of a penis in the house? Unless the penis could fire bullets, I doubt it could do more than I could if someone broke in. In fact, I’m betting in a rage, I could probably insult a burglar to death. Yet there I was, wide awake half the night thinking that a California King bed felt like the size of a football field when you were by yourself.

All this has given me a bigger appreciation for marriage. This week, my husband is home because he’s taking a class that’s closer to our house. During this time, I will watch the Military Channel without complaint and listen to him talk about his day with rapt attention. I will savor every home-cooked meal like it is my last. Hell, I might even shave my legs. But only if he promises to put out.

 

Comments

[Cookiebitch]

You and me on camels with our feelings, Marie. And cocktails, I hope.

[Memarie Lane]

I hate talking about feelings too, and for some reason people see me as a feelings / dirty laundry magnet. By the time they're done piling it all up on me, my cheeks and neck ache from all the smiling and nodding. And then, to make matters worse, they want to know about MY feelings. And I usually don't have any. I am an emotional Sahara.