Thirteen years ago, I ran through my house at breakneck speed and flung open the front door where my future husband stood. I jumped on him, legs wrapped around his waist and lips planted firmly on his. This was no polite hello – this was a crazed, thirsty, deep, and primal need to jump his bones. If I could have, I would have ripped his clothes off right there.
That was how turned on I used to get around my husband. That was dating.
After a mortgage, three kids, and signs of wear and tear as we inch ever closer to 40, things have cooled in the boudoir considerably. Take this past Monday, for example. The Late Late Show was coming on, and the commercials were taking forever, so we looked at each other, the blue light of the TV screen playing across our tired faces, and my husband said, “well…you wanna?” And then for ten perfunctory minutes, we fumbled on the couch and tried, politely, to take turns having orgasms.
That was how not turned on we got that night, not unlike many other nights. This is marriage.
There was a time when I thought we would never be that couple who relaxes into a routine that excludes flirtation and the kind of heavy breathing that causes one to blush. It seemed to me, in my energetic twenties, that there was something kind of sad and maybe a little bit desperate about letting that kind of passion slip through the thin spaces between stacks of bills and unending responsibilities.
Although we didn’t break a sweat on the couch that night, this past Monday, we did lounge in our underwear and eat nachos together. We laughed at political jokes and openly wondered about whether or not Meryl Streep will ever retire from acting. That kind of comfort that manifests after years of couplehood has replaced the appetites of our younger days, but in so many ways it’s better.
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