4 Romantic Things It’s Okay To Let Slide When You’re Marriedby Anne Roderique-Jones on August 14, 2012
Can I say this? I mean, just to make myself feel better. I’ve not completely let myself go. I’ve yet to wear hole-y underwear, I shave my underarms on a regular basis, and I don’t use the toilet with the door open…yet.
One of the best things about finding the person that doesn’t want to make you want to poke your eyes out is the comfortable cuddle. I especially love watching a particularly dysfunctional episode of Real Housewives and having a good old-fashioned cuddling session. Or ordering take-out and cuddling. Or watching Matlock and cuddling. But I’ve resigned cuddling to the sofa. The post-roll in the hay cuddle has long since dissipated. Sure, there was once a time when my husband (then boyfriend) and I were good sports about the whole post-coitis spooning—but I like my sleep, and I like to sprawl, and I prefer a shag sans a long sweat-induced body hug.
Sometimes women sit around and talk about why they love their husbands. Words like “fixing the rotary girder engine valve thing” or “he’s so loyal” often make the list. My husband rules for a million different reasons, but the kicker for me is that he’s picked up the slack on cleaning out my hair pet from the shower drain. We don’t talk about it, but I know the hairy animal is there, and it waits until after our poor excuse of shower drains each morning. And I know he cleans it out for me—just like he takes out the garbage. He probably doesn’t like it, but I like to think he does it to be nice. Or maybe he’s in the basement fashioning my hairball into tiny wigs for the Toddlers and Tiaras babies.
There was a time when I was a regular Paula Dean in the kitchen. I whipped-up an elaborate, grease-laden meal every night and served it naked, clad only in an apron. Actually, the last part is a complete lie, but I did cook meals fit for Hungry Man—a Thanksgiving dinner for two every evening. I hail from the loins of traditional Southern ladies who serve three meals daily from a cast iron skillet, and I came armed in marriage with trusty recipe cards, scribbled with the likes of meatloaf wellington, fried pork chops and chicken and dumplings. I did my best as a working class susie homemaker—until susie became fatty. The angels sang the day we moved to New York City, and fat susie learned her way around a take-out menu.
Ahhh, those first few months of dating. You’re getting laid so often that you have no need to step on an elliptical device, eating is completely unnecessary and done only for survival; reality television…what’s that? Lube…huh? You’re holed-up like two frisky animals and living inside of a space that needs only a bathroom and bedroom. A pint-sized studio will suffice and as long as you can do what you do best the first three months of dating-which is mating and leg shaving. My point: You’re constantly shaving your legs as long as you’re getting a piece of tail, and I had a twice-daily flow of tail in the early days of our relationship. Now, my self-respect is more around the armpit area and from the waist down from May-September.