Yup – I'm gonna do it. I'm straight up gonna ask you about your sex life. For realz. In a serious way.
Which is kind of dumb. Because every single one of you has a different schedule and situation than I do and I can’t realistically base my sex life on your answers BUT – it’s a woman thing. I need to know that I’m not alone – so please…just this once – give up your sex answers. I must commiserate over my lack of "dessert" this week with fellow women.
For the love of God – lie if you have to – just tell me I’m not alone.
Here’s the dealio. Rambo and I are lovey dovey
sickening people. I’m that way by choice and by complete effort. I grew up in a non-touchy lovey childhood and I desperately needed it. So as angry children are prone to do – I swore “one day when I grew up” that if I ever had a marriage and kids – that I’d hug and kiss them and tell them I love them 60 cazillion times a day.
So I do. And Rambo just follows my suit and has become the guy who loves that stuff too.
Yup - the big, burly, gun-toting, SWAT trained, 4x4 truck driving prison guard is a softie.
Naturally – this means our sex life is healthy too.
EXCEPT FOR NOW.
It’s like the Sahara desert, people. And for the first time in our over 20 year history – I’m actually thinking about scheduling and literally pencilling sex in our calendars.
Scratch that. Screw the pencil. At this point I'm using a freaking Sharpie.
And I blame Scooby Doo.
Why? Mostly because there’s no one else to blame and he’s the first person who popped into my head. But it’s noone’s fault. It’s a consequence of having so many jobs.
Rambo used to have two days off a week but now he drives a semi on those 2 days off for upwards of 16 hours a day. Yesterday he left the house at 4am and didn’t walk back in the house until 9pm.
Which means take a shower and go to bed because 4am is coming again really quickly.
He took his shower and we went to bed and right before we drifted off to sleep, Rambo clung to me and whispered, “Thank you for that amazing sex. It was soooo good.”
I replied, “I know, right?”
And a few seconds later he was asleep. I miss him terribly. Not just the physical him but the mental him. Rambo and I talk each night for a long time – during supper, before bed, in the bath, all evening – and it’s how I end each day. It’s how I get through each day. When I can’t do that – I feel incomplete.
The funny thing is I know he feels it too. I hear it in his voice – when he calls me more than he usually does. When he lingers on the phone a little bit more than usual.
Our phone calls are usually short and sweet because we know we’ll catch up at night but now we’re spending time on the phone. Full on conversations – because the night conversations aren’t gonna happen.
Our hearts hurt. I’m trying to just be the supportive wife. The one that takes care of everything at home so he doesn’t have to. So he knows I appreciate his willingness to work a literal 6 weeks straight before he gets a day off.
But he’s hurting too. I know because of the extra phone calls. The extra texts. The extra minute he kisses and hugs me at 4am before he gets up to do it all over again. The missing is like a palpable thing in the room you can feel.
Normally we’d say it over and over but this time neither of us has – because I think we’re afraid of the magnitude of the emotions behind it this time. Maybe we’re both afraid we’d fall apart. Or maybe we’re afraid we’d let our emotions win and say, “The hell with it – let’s quit all the side jobs – and just live on love.”…when we know that’s as insane as the missing feels. I’m staying strong for him and he’s staying strong for me.
But I know him well enough to know – he’s hurting. And he knows I am too.
And my girls feel the same way. Banana fell asleep sitting up on the couch last night – waiting for Daddy. Before his shower, he lovingly carried her to bed and kissed her goodnight…and I know his heart broke a little.
It’s temporary. It won’t be like this forever.
Damn these soaring gas prices. It’s been a week without sex and I’m already talking about scheduling it like it’s therapy. I mean really – sexting can only hold us over for so long. And the grammar goddess in me finds it hard to be turned on when Rambo misspells cooter. The only thing I can think about at that point is spell check.
How do you guys do it? Not “do it”. I mean – how do you work it in? OMG – that sounded even worse, didn’t it? You know what I mean.
Do you schedule it? Have you always planned it or is it always spontaneous? Do you care? Does it matter to you? Do you miss it? How long do you go before you stage an intervention on a dry spell?
Do you let your schedules dictate your sex life? How do you feel about that?
Come on. Share.
Tell me I'm not alone living in the Sahara with my planner and my Sharpie.