I haven’t had sex in two and a half years. There! I said it. And it didn’t sound half as pitiful as I thought it would.
But a fact like that is hard to ignore, especially because the minute my divorce was final, I found my long-lost libido. For the first time in years, I am actually aware that there are men on the planet I’m attracted to and I feel I should be doing something about it.
Let me tell you: It’s a hard way to live when the man who you vowed to love, honor, and cherish is no longer the man you want to have or to hold. It wasn’t that he’d lost his looks. Oh no. Women who didn’t really know him scolded me for losing my edge with such a handsome man. “He’s so handsome,” they would say. “I know. It’s really sad…” I would say with all the earnestness at my command, because it was sad. How could a beautiful package be so deceivingly empty?
You set your expectations high when you say “I do” to the man of your dreams and then, when it all comes crashing down around you, you wonder why you believed in happily-ever-after in the first place. But you did, and now it’s time to believe in something else.
When God closes one door, he opens another, but the wait in the hall is a bitch. As far as I can tell, that’s divorce in a nutshell.
I loved him absolutely and felt settled and happy on the terra firma that was our life together. But then one day I realized that his heart had sailed and come to rest upon another continent. A place I couldn’t reach, even though it was merely a touch away. He didn’t love me anymore, which made me wonder. Had he ever?
In the end, many questions are still left unanswered and maybe that’s because there are no answers to give. I have tried to trace the trajectory of our cobbled marriage, hoping that if I could pin-point the specific place we ran aground, it would all make sense to me and I could at least salvage some of the good memories, which are still too painful to revisit. Maybe someday that will change. I hope so.
I’m tired. Tired of hoping I’ll run into Mr. Right at the supermarket, or in some minor fender bender. It’s not that I’m all that unhappy on my own, but it does take two to tango and I could really use a spin on the old dance floor, if you know what I mean. I’ve had no luck with internet dating and don’t plan to travel that bumpy road again and unfortunately, no one seems to throw parties anymore. Everyone I know is coupled up and in bed by ten which made me think: There has to be a better way.
In my quest to meet eligible men I decided it might be wise to take the “retro” approach and ask my friends to fix me up. Even if they were without candidates, I told them to keep me in mind; who knows, things can always change. And I figured if I asked every person I know to fix me up it would accomplish two things. First, surely the law of averages would be on my side and I’d probably get a few dates out of it. And second, I’d be putting the message out to the universe that I am indeed ready to date again. (I am a firm believer in the Law of Attraction)
Oh my God, I am so paranoid. I just can't seem to escape it. Might as well go ahead and write on my tombstone:
Loving mom, dedicated friend, Had sex with two different men in one weekend. Devoted her life to worrying about it.
But now that a few days had past since last weekend's promiscuity, my mind was at war with itself and my body. Why the heck did I call it "promiscuity" anyway? I hated that word. It was so judgmental and, well, limiting. Why couldn't I think of it as "sexual exploration"? Yes, that sounded way more empowering.
Today, as women everywhere breathe heavy over 50 Shades of Grey, an erotic novel complete with role-playing and BDSM, I actually find myself breathing a little easier. Because it's something I've experienced in real life. I also chose to tell the world about it in my memoir (gulp). And at the back of my mind I've always worried, "Is everyone going to think I'm a freak for this?"
There was a time when putting expiration dates on food products was not the norm. We had to guess how long we could keep perishables in the pantry or fridge. But now milk, yogurt, and even beer have a ‘best if used before’ date, which has saved me, more than once, from poisoning myself.
So wouldn’t it be great if the same technology could be used to determine the shelf-life on a new relationship? At least we’d know when it might begin to turn sour, or if--like a Twinkie--it would never get stale.
Think about it. Wouldn’t it be great if you could predict the half-life of a romance before you invested in all the new lingerie and got your hopes up, as well as the hopes of your girlfriends?
In a very popular movie, "Fight Club", which was based upon a novel by Chuck Palaniuk's, there was an idea about what the modern man (not a person but a man) is.
I don't remember exactly the quotation, but in brief it was, "This is the generation of the modern man. They were brought up by women, and they are hesitating all the time." But I have to ask, is this really the problem? When people are going to marry, it's their will, without any pressing for the most part. We do not take into consideration the cases when parents, religion, social problems or anything else that may have "caused" a marriage.
