Or, rather–less interested.
Let me say, first and foremost, that I’m not a person who can stick with things for a while. I’m wishy-washy. Flighty. Easily distracted. (Meanwhile, I maintain a fierce loyalty to certain things. Go figure.) The problem is, that sort of wishy-washy mentality has invaded my…erm…personal life.
Fine. I’ll admit it. I’m thirty-four, and I don’t give a rat’s patootie about sex.
Sweet Jesus. That’s awful to see written there. It’s the truth, though, and that’s sort of the point of this whole blog thing, right? So, there it is. An inescapable, undeniable truth.
I’ve been this way for a while, so there’s no concern about sudden-onset issues that might be an indicator of some underlying medical issue. Perhaps it’s connected to my hypothyroidism? (That’s being treated, so…no?) Perhaps it’s due to–as my doctor suspects–my being overwhelmed with being wife/mom/poor housekeeper/woman-of-all-work/doctor mom/me all the time, no breaks? To be completely honest, I’m 99.9% certain he’s correct, as when I’m relaxed, I’m more receptive to hubby’s advances.
Heh. That makes him sound like a perv at a bar. It’s just…he’s always “on”–and I’m not. Hardly ever, in fact. And I get annoyed by him. To the “get away from me, would you” point.
And then I wonder if my lack of interest stems from my lack of attraction. I love him–dear heavens, I do love him. He’s my best friend, my confidante (in so many things), my go-to guy, he’s everything. But I’m just not getting that switch flipped. We’re both in terrible shape–I’ve tried to diet, and fallen off that wagon so many times it feels like a bad run on The Oregon Trail. He’s hardly made any effort in the seven years that I’ve yo-yo’d. Where I would try and try and fail, he’d just sit idly by and gorge himself. If I mention it, he always intends to start losing weight, to start getting fit. (Just like in keeping house–he tells me he’s not happy with how messily we live, but he hardly lifts a finger to help. It’s always “later”.)
So now he wanders around the house with this watermelon-sized gut, looking for all the world like a younger version of his dad, and I’m just not feeling it. I don’t enjoy kissing him, or snuggling him, or anything. It’s very much a “lie back and think of England” situation.
Or, in my case, Chris Hemsworth. Or Chris Evans. Or RDJ. Or whatever might be my mental flavor-of-the-week.
I have turned into one of Those Women. You know the kind–the wives who bitch about their husbands, who constantly find fault in them, and sit around pining over/lusting after some pretty thing. It’s nauseating, when I really stop to consider it, yet I find myself right back in that boat Every. Single. Time. We’ll have a wonderful day, enjoy ourselves, and then come home…the kids won’t go to bed, he’ll get annoyed, I’ll get annoyed, we’ll be up until eleven putting D. into bed again and again, then herding L. back to bed after a late-night potty trip, and by the time we finally get around to retiring, he’s still raring to go and I just want it over. Cue mental wanderings.
I’m sure I’m totally normal, as far as my situation, but I confess it’s disheartening. Hubby has so many fixable things that he won’t take care of (point #1: his atrocious feet, which he can’t be bothered to see a doctor about again. They’re so awful I won’t touch them; in fact, I can’t remember having purposely touched his feet in the ten-plus years of our marriage. They’re hideous, but he says they’re fine, since his dad’s are the same. THOSE FEET ARE NOT NORMAL. I know this, but he refuses to care. This isn’t normal–or healthy) or says can’t be corrected (point #2: his lack of dental care. He says the dentist will wring his neck at the condition of his teeth, but won’t go to see what needs doing, so they get worse and worse. His breath is unpleasant, another reason I’m not keen on the smooches).
See where I’m going? My husband, my help-meet, my partner…it’s like he won’t bother with himself, but wants me to think of him as a sex god.
I can’t do it. I just don’t like it. How many wives admit to that? And what’s worse, I can’t sit him down and explain all this, because I’ll hurt his feelings (been there, done that), bruise his ego (ditto), and generally make him unhappy (again with the same). How do you break it to your spouse that you’re not inspired to new heights of passion because you’re too turned off by all the “little” things? How do you make them understand, despite all prior (failed) attempts, that it’s NOT a matter of not loving them, but of not being attracted to what’s been let go. (I might be fat, but I keep myself clean, try to look presentable, and make an effort to take care of myself as I am. I’m just needing motivation to get fit.) Doesn’t my effort count for something? Shouldn’t he want to reciprocate? Why should I go to bed with a gross-footed, orally odorous man who crushes me under his weight, and pretend I’m so turned on it’s crazy? To suggest such a thing is ridiculous.
Unfortunately, I think I have to live with it…he doesn’t seem to be interested in changing, and I can’t change my (lack of) interest.
On occasion, being married sucks.