June 6, 2019: our anniversary. I’ve been married (to the same
guy) for a full year. We’ve been together for more than 6 years. I’ve never devoted
myself to anything with such unwavering loyalty. Well, not since elementary
school; I refused to let the stretch pant and scrunchy sock fad die. I just
wouldn’t give up on them, holding out hope that LA Gear shoes with glitter shoelaces
would make a comeback. I was fighting the good fight. I wasn’t one of the tacky
bitches who wore tasseled denim jackets or, god forbid, the tasseled boot. I had
class. Stretch, scrunch, & glitter 4 lyfe!
People will sometimes ask how The Lobster (husband) and I
met. I like to say, “It’s kind of a funny story. When we first met, he was a married
mute who tucked his rock band t-shirts into his denim shorts. He reminded me of
a teenager with developmental issues, who, because he was still married, was off-limits.
It was so fucking hot.”
My husband isn’t a
mute, he just wasn’t much for words when we first met. I get it, I’m kind of
breathtaking. He was, in fact, married when we first became acquainted. That’s
a long story. CliffsNotes:
She lost. I won. He no longer tucks in his t-shirts. I win, again. I’m not a
homewrecker either; they were already separating. I was just in the right place
at the right time. I’m lucky like that.
When I began dating my husband, I was much prettier. Okay, I was
nicer. You still not buying? Fine. I was younger. Along with youth comes a
sense of I’m going
to be okay, no matter what. I don’t need a relationship. I’m older. Not so anymore. It’s all downhill from
here; a fact I remind my husband of frequently. It’s called CYA. Can’t have him
claiming he wasn’t aware that I’d let myself go then try filing for divorce. It’d
be a shame for the brake lines on his car to go.
I have trouble getting off the floor when I’ve gone looking for
something under the sofa. Bracing all my weight on my good knee with both hands
to assist me, I hoist my meaty organ husk off the floor, letting out a soft
whimper. I am not prepared to do this
shit alone. Furthermore, I want a partner whom I can tease well into old age.
What if I fall in the shower one day? Sure, Life Alert can
get a paramedic to my residence, but by now I’m ugly, old, and likely naked. What’s
the point? Might as well just leave me in the shower to drown in my own piss
and tears. My cats will eat my remains eventually. I’ve seen them throw up on
the floor then eat it, you can’t tell me they won’t eat my dead body. Years of
eating the same dry cat food daily, I imagine there’s quite a bit of hostility
worked up. The marriage trade-off is: I pack lunches until retirement, in exchange he
changes my oil, reaches the shit on the top shelf and makes sure I don’t die
naked. It's fair.
Over the last 365 days, I have said, “I’m sorry” 1,321 times. How can you
possibly know that you may ask? I’m anal retentive and have zero
regard for how awkward it makes other people feel always saying, “I’m sorry.” I
was also raised Catholic, so it’s deeply fucking ingrained. I say, “I’m sorry” when
you stub your toe. It’s not my fault you’re an idiot who didn’t pay attention
to where you were going. Still, somehow, I’m sorry.
If we do the math, 1,321 averages out to 3.6 times a day that
I say I’m sorry to my husband. Let’s call it 4. Can you imagine how fucking
nerve-racking that would be? It’s a miracle I’m not buried in the desert by
now. I would have killed me at least 4 months ago. Times like these I’m glad we
live in a condo. Community pool means someone is likely to witness the drowning
and there’s no backyard of our own to speak of; he’s going to have to borrow
one.
The Lobster endures. I am not what one would call
high maintenance, but I certainly make it difficult. There's pouting,
passive-aggressive backlash, impatience, and an endless barrage of shelter dog
photos that I send him. We can't have a dog due to landlord regulations at our
condo. That, however, doesn't stop me from sending him photos of every sweet
miserable pup face I see. My depravity is boundless.
6.5 fucking years! I’ve been sleeping with the
same man for 6.5 years. How the hell did this happen? Not a stray in there
anywhere. So weird. Family members have joked about my 2-year cap. My attention
span gives out after that and literally, EVERYTHING they do irritates me. I have
dumped men because I didn’t like the way they breathed anymore. Chewing was an issue with one. Hair became an issue with another – I couldn’t wake up next to
dreads anymore. It was nothing serious at that point anyhow. Best to nip that
shit in the bud. Here I am 6.5 years later, still staring at the same set of
balls though. Man, life is funny.
For my readers, my husband is an incredibly good
sport. He’ll take this in stride and with remarkable grace. He knows I love him
beyond time and space. For the sake of his
family, I’ve made this post “unavailable” on certain platforms– or at least to some
of them. No one wants to read about their son’s balls. My own family, however,
well, I have no shame and since most of this is about how shitty I am, this should
come as no surprise. My foul-mouth and lack of tact or couth is why everyone
knows not to answer the phone on speaker and ALWAYS remind me to behave myself
BEFORE the family function begins. If you forget to tell me not to swear, that
shit’s on you.
I’ll wrap it up by saying my husband is a sweet
piece of ass and I adore him. It’s been great so far. I’ve enjoyed finding new
and creative ways to confuse and torment him. For our next year of marriage, I’m
going to practice saying, “I’m sorry” in multiple languages or perhaps with a Canadian
accent. For language variations, I’ll start small. I can begin with sign language;
clear facial emote must be employed. I’ll work up to something harder like
Japanese or Hungarian.
That’s all for now. Sorry it took so long.
Thanks for following along on my mindless rant.
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