The other night, I was sitting there on the couch next to my beloved Shark Bait. I needed to go to the bathroom, so I went through the labor intensive process of putting the foot rest down, getting the dog out from under the blanket that was on my lap, relocating the dog, etc. By the time I was done, I was exhausted. I sat there, on the edge of the couch for just a moment and looked at Shark Bait. There he was, totally engrossed in some sort of alien version of Candy Crush. He was totally oblivious to my situation. I thought to myself, I bet I could sit here and shit my pants and Shark Bait would be completely unphased. I sat there for another moment, just staring at him, my mind thinking about our relationship. I finally stated my thought out loud. He ignored me. I said, "you're not listening to me." He then gave me his full attention and said, "what?" I repeated my theory about shitting myself. He just looked back down at his Kindle and went back to eliminating aliens. I pressed him further for a response. He grunted, "doubtful."
One of two things had just occurred. I have either worn him out with off-the-wall scenarios, or we had reached "that place" where nothing I could do would phase him. Like, romance and surprise, GONE. I sat there just staring at him, thinking about where we were as a couple. There really wasn't much territory that we have not covered. I mean, I have never spawned a child from my loins, but I have undergone a couple of surgeries that have produced some major side-effects. I have had the stomach flu ( pre-marriage, so he not only survived that, but stuck around for the encore of marriage). Also notable, I am a woman and thusly do cycle every 28 days, so, you know, things come up. I don't hedge around it, I come right out and tell him that I am shedding my uterine wall, I have cramps like a mo-fo and that I just lost a clot the size of a small puppy. Doesn't even phase him, he just says, "sorry, Baby." And, I'm not even going to pretend I've never walked out of the bathroom after a battle of sphincter vs. nature's will and said, "Shark Bait, I think I just pooped something the size of a baby's arm, you could actually drive a semi-truck up my butt right now...without lube." Okay, so that is gross, but that is the kind of relationship we have. How did that happen? I have no idea.
I mean, it's great we have this comfort level, right? Or is it? I mean, we do close the bathroom door, but really, we are a one bathroom residence and always have been at each location we have lived at, so if I need in there while he is going to the bathroom, I'm goin in. And, vice versa. I'm not saying I want to be in there, but if we are in a hurry, getting ready for work, or whatever, then, things happen. I'm not going to freak out about it. I mean, if things get graphic, I leave. There are certain things I just don't want to witness. If what he ate yesterday is biting his ass today, I don't need to be there. And, if I'm in there, reading the Do's and Don'ts section in Glamour magazine, I'd like some privacy. How else am I going to know that leaving the bathroom door open with your man ruins intimacy? I actually might have read that in Cosmo, but I can't be sure. I think the bathroom situation is one of those issues that people are pretty much okay with or on the other end of the spectrum where they are like, no way, girls don't fart and never poo, or they just whisper in their panties. I'm here to tell you, we've passed that road. Human bodily functions just aren't a big deal. I mean, if Shark Bait pulls a crop dust situation in the store, I'll leave him in a heartbeat. I'll get two rows over and I suddenly I will not know him. And, if he tries to dutch oven me under the covers, I'll punch him in the nards. I have limits and boundaries, after all. I'm just saying, basically, everybody poops. I think there is even a kids book about it.
Another threshold we have crossed: grooming. It's almost a monkey situation if I have a bump on my back and I need to know what is going on back there. Shark bait gets the magnifying glass, tweezers, whatever. If the words are uttered, "is that bite or pimple?" The other person whips out their Ph D and jumps into action. This is not for the squeamish. I'm not saying we are hideous zit-infested people, I'm just saying, occasionally, something pops up, so to speak. And, when Shark Bait needs his eye brows tweezed, I'm there. Not just because I enjoy inflicting pain on him, but also because I am not married to Ernie from Sesame Street and I'm not looking at that uni-brow. For me, if I need my toe nails painted, Shark Bait is up for the task.
Closely related to grooming is wardrobe assistance. If I am stuck in my FCD (Fat Controlling Device), bra or nylons, this is when Shark Bait comes to the rescue. He doesn't really get stuck in his clothing, but I can tell you, if he needed me, I'd be there. I do fold his laundry sometimes, so that's kind of like wardrobe assistance.
We also can't forget another potentially awkward topic: sex. Now, I'm not going to elaborate on this for obvious reasons, but let's just say, we do have a move called the "Geriatric Dismount." Hey, if you get a charlie horse, you've got a situation. You need an exit strategy. Also, I'm not shy. I have questions. I'll ask them. I'll ask Shark Bait stuff until he is ready to crawl under the bed and curl up in fetal position. But he doesn't, he just goes with it because he knows that I'm like a little kid asking "why? how come? why not?" I pretty much won't stop unless you give me a cookie and send me off to watch cartoons. Shark Bait has never tried that, but he should. We both will walk around the house naked or close to naked. Neither one of us is a retired supermodel, or pretends to be, but there comes a moment where you just have to say, "who cares?" I'm known to occasionally say, "Shark Bait, look at my fat belly...just look at it..." It happens. He always tells me he loves me and that I'm beautiful. And, I always tell him I'm lucky I married a man with failing vision.
Aside from the obvious gross or embarrassing stuff, we can tell each other anything. Unless Shark Bait just bought another gun, in which case, he keeps that a secret and then tries to convince me to believe he already had it or got a steal of a deal on it and he told me about it already and I just don't remember. We both know this tactic won't work, but it doesn't stop him from trying. It's like a little game we play. It's called, "I"m going to pretend my wife is stupid and she is going to hand me my ass on a platter." It's a fun game, no dice or cards required.
All these things were crossing my mind as I just stared at Shark Bait sitting there on the couch. I thought about how he has been rolling over and snoring and coughing in my face the last week while he has been sick and the nights he sits there completely in another world in his Kindle or in Facebook. Are we just BFF's? Have we sacrificed a more mysterious, exciting life for one of two boring people shuffling around the house scratching and farting? Are we fraternity brothers or husband and wife? Some might say we have crossed too many lines and that the romance is gone. But what is romance, anyway? I mean, sure it could be flowers and candlelight or romantic strolls. Or, it could be Shark Bait helping me feed the ponies on a cold night and we stand there together and watch the ponies chew their hay and sneak a kiss and hug in the barn. It could be a night on the town and a fancy dinner, or it could be sitting side by side on the couch watching The Voice holding hands.
Sometimes I think I want something different than what I have, but the reality is, 10 years of nurturing this relationship has created something comfortable and secure. I know that whether I just need a kiss and a hug, or a full on discussion about how my intestines sound like a freight train, I can get either in the same place. That's pretty cool, right? So, I think the answer to the original question is, yes, I could sit next to him and shit my pants, and while he would be grossed out about it, he would still love me and we would laugh about it later. I do think, however, I would be cleaning up my mess solo. I mean, not that I have any desire to create such a mess, but since I posed this question to the universe, I think it deserved an answer.
And now, like many times before, anyone who has read this knows more than they bargained for. But like my relationship with Shark Bait, I think we all know each other well enough to expect a little trauma during the average blog reading. Just to be clear, however, I don't feel close enough to any of you to want to see you naked walking around in my house. I'll call the cops, I mean it.
One of two things had just occurred. I have either worn him out with off-the-wall scenarios, or we had reached "that place" where nothing I could do would phase him. Like, romance and surprise, GONE. I sat there just staring at him, thinking about where we were as a couple. There really wasn't much territory that we have not covered. I mean, I have never spawned a child from my loins, but I have undergone a couple of surgeries that have produced some major side-effects. I have had the stomach flu ( pre-marriage, so he not only survived that, but stuck around for the encore of marriage). Also notable, I am a woman and thusly do cycle every 28 days, so, you know, things come up. I don't hedge around it, I come right out and tell him that I am shedding my uterine wall, I have cramps like a mo-fo and that I just lost a clot the size of a small puppy. Doesn't even phase him, he just says, "sorry, Baby." And, I'm not even going to pretend I've never walked out of the bathroom after a battle of sphincter vs. nature's will and said, "Shark Bait, I think I just pooped something the size of a baby's arm, you could actually drive a semi-truck up my butt right now...without lube." Okay, so that is gross, but that is the kind of relationship we have. How did that happen? I have no idea.
I mean, it's great we have this comfort level, right? Or is it? I mean, we do close the bathroom door, but really, we are a one bathroom residence and always have been at each location we have lived at, so if I need in there while he is going to the bathroom, I'm goin in. And, vice versa. I'm not saying I want to be in there, but if we are in a hurry, getting ready for work, or whatever, then, things happen. I'm not going to freak out about it. I mean, if things get graphic, I leave. There are certain things I just don't want to witness. If what he ate yesterday is biting his ass today, I don't need to be there. And, if I'm in there, reading the Do's and Don'ts section in Glamour magazine, I'd like some privacy. How else am I going to know that leaving the bathroom door open with your man ruins intimacy? I actually might have read that in Cosmo, but I can't be sure. I think the bathroom situation is one of those issues that people are pretty much okay with or on the other end of the spectrum where they are like, no way, girls don't fart and never poo, or they just whisper in their panties. I'm here to tell you, we've passed that road. Human bodily functions just aren't a big deal. I mean, if Shark Bait pulls a crop dust situation in the store, I'll leave him in a heartbeat. I'll get two rows over and I suddenly I will not know him. And, if he tries to dutch oven me under the covers, I'll punch him in the nards. I have limits and boundaries, after all. I'm just saying, basically, everybody poops. I think there is even a kids book about it.
Another threshold we have crossed: grooming. It's almost a monkey situation if I have a bump on my back and I need to know what is going on back there. Shark bait gets the magnifying glass, tweezers, whatever. If the words are uttered, "is that bite or pimple?" The other person whips out their Ph D and jumps into action. This is not for the squeamish. I'm not saying we are hideous zit-infested people, I'm just saying, occasionally, something pops up, so to speak. And, when Shark Bait needs his eye brows tweezed, I'm there. Not just because I enjoy inflicting pain on him, but also because I am not married to Ernie from Sesame Street and I'm not looking at that uni-brow. For me, if I need my toe nails painted, Shark Bait is up for the task.
Closely related to grooming is wardrobe assistance. If I am stuck in my FCD (Fat Controlling Device), bra or nylons, this is when Shark Bait comes to the rescue. He doesn't really get stuck in his clothing, but I can tell you, if he needed me, I'd be there. I do fold his laundry sometimes, so that's kind of like wardrobe assistance.
We also can't forget another potentially awkward topic: sex. Now, I'm not going to elaborate on this for obvious reasons, but let's just say, we do have a move called the "Geriatric Dismount." Hey, if you get a charlie horse, you've got a situation. You need an exit strategy. Also, I'm not shy. I have questions. I'll ask them. I'll ask Shark Bait stuff until he is ready to crawl under the bed and curl up in fetal position. But he doesn't, he just goes with it because he knows that I'm like a little kid asking "why? how come? why not?" I pretty much won't stop unless you give me a cookie and send me off to watch cartoons. Shark Bait has never tried that, but he should. We both will walk around the house naked or close to naked. Neither one of us is a retired supermodel, or pretends to be, but there comes a moment where you just have to say, "who cares?" I'm known to occasionally say, "Shark Bait, look at my fat belly...just look at it..." It happens. He always tells me he loves me and that I'm beautiful. And, I always tell him I'm lucky I married a man with failing vision.
Aside from the obvious gross or embarrassing stuff, we can tell each other anything. Unless Shark Bait just bought another gun, in which case, he keeps that a secret and then tries to convince me to believe he already had it or got a steal of a deal on it and he told me about it already and I just don't remember. We both know this tactic won't work, but it doesn't stop him from trying. It's like a little game we play. It's called, "I"m going to pretend my wife is stupid and she is going to hand me my ass on a platter." It's a fun game, no dice or cards required.
All these things were crossing my mind as I just stared at Shark Bait sitting there on the couch. I thought about how he has been rolling over and snoring and coughing in my face the last week while he has been sick and the nights he sits there completely in another world in his Kindle or in Facebook. Are we just BFF's? Have we sacrificed a more mysterious, exciting life for one of two boring people shuffling around the house scratching and farting? Are we fraternity brothers or husband and wife? Some might say we have crossed too many lines and that the romance is gone. But what is romance, anyway? I mean, sure it could be flowers and candlelight or romantic strolls. Or, it could be Shark Bait helping me feed the ponies on a cold night and we stand there together and watch the ponies chew their hay and sneak a kiss and hug in the barn. It could be a night on the town and a fancy dinner, or it could be sitting side by side on the couch watching The Voice holding hands.
Sometimes I think I want something different than what I have, but the reality is, 10 years of nurturing this relationship has created something comfortable and secure. I know that whether I just need a kiss and a hug, or a full on discussion about how my intestines sound like a freight train, I can get either in the same place. That's pretty cool, right? So, I think the answer to the original question is, yes, I could sit next to him and shit my pants, and while he would be grossed out about it, he would still love me and we would laugh about it later. I do think, however, I would be cleaning up my mess solo. I mean, not that I have any desire to create such a mess, but since I posed this question to the universe, I think it deserved an answer.
And now, like many times before, anyone who has read this knows more than they bargained for. But like my relationship with Shark Bait, I think we all know each other well enough to expect a little trauma during the average blog reading. Just to be clear, however, I don't feel close enough to any of you to want to see you naked walking around in my house. I'll call the cops, I mean it.
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