It's never a good feeling to hear that your spouse finds somebody that they see on a regular basis, attractive. But not just attractive, hot. And not just hot, but they also have a tight ass.
Now I know that I'm going out on a limb airing a very difficult conversation. But I have never been one to hide things. Or to pretend our lives were anything but real. And messy.
I normally don't struggle with self confidence. I'm pretty good with "what you see is what you get. And I'm really ok with that." I'm working on my ever changing new body as babies come and babies go. Every time there seems to be a new body that is left behind. A little extra skin. A little more flop. It's hard. It's something that every mother has to work through. And it's something that no baby partner/spouse will ever be able to understand. The emotional struggle of being ok, agin and again, with what can't be changed.
Every woman wants to feel good. To feel queen like. And different things make different lady-loos shine.
Me personally, I feel the most queenlike when I have an astronomical amount of beads around my ankles, wrists, and neck. And to top it truly off - every finger would have a ring. Or maybe two. My hair would be in some sort of quasi-greasy mess. And my clothes, - yes, they would appear raggish to some. Flowy. Lovely.
If you see me in this sort of fanciful attire, I'm having a great day. I feel great. You could say, I wear my feelings. Literally.
Big D on the otherhand . . . .*ahem* finds things such as *gag* sneakers *puke* *choke* attractive. Yoga pants. Things that leave nothing to the imagination. Tight. Bordering on slutty. (But he wouldn't say that) Everything that I'm not. Sexy business clothes? He says yes. Workout attire? He says yes. Modern look? He says yes.
And I'm over here, on the couch with my 30 year old threadbare skirt on, feeling magical. Most of the time.
I kinda compromise by keeping my undergarments a tad more flare-y.
I believe in staying true to yourself. Not changing who you are for somebody else to accept you. But, that doesn't mean that every once in a while I'll pull out a pair of pants that show off how flat and unattractive my bottom has grown with the years of marriage and number of children that I've acquired and have lived through.
And that's me, most of all the time.
But I am human. And I am woman. Which means that I do become a crumbly mess topped off with a large shot of hormonal whipped cream. Sometimes.
Sometimes, on those weepy waily days. Where you just want the world to tell you that you are enough. That you are desirable. That your ass is tighter. And the cheese-dimples are just lust sprinkles. And sorority Honey Buns, that's only made it to year 23, has got nothing on all that you have created. All that you have made your life. And everything that your dimples have brought with sacrifice.
My human self is crushed with not being "good enough". Crushed with not being worthy of "tight ass" status. (so silly, I know) . . . . . . . . . . . .
But there's another part of the story. The part of the story were I've fought with Big D for almost 10 years on being more transparent. More truthful, in the way of not leaving out by omission. By sharing the hard stuff, that could dig a deep nasty hole. And make for tears. Hurt feelings. Feelings of self-loathing. That could crumble my self-confidence.
And he is finally hearing my heart. And he is stepping out onto a scary limb. That no man wants to be a part of. The messy part. The part where a man thinks that it's better to just keep things to himself. Quiet. To not wake the dragon. Because they don't have the energy to go to that dark place with their wife.
He's choosing hard over easy. He's choosing transparency over blind. He's choosing honor over pride. I am so loved.
As utterly crumpled in spirit as I am, I wouldn't have it any other way. Maybe I'm not as confident as I think myself to be. Or maybe I'm just having a weak moment. Or maybe I need to find fresh-faced Honey Bun's a couple of 30 year old, threadbare skirts to wear to class.
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