I'll Be the Wife and You Be My Hunny, That's How it Goes

Remember middle school--that tragic age between dropping the barbie dolls because you were too embarrassed--and picking up the doll again in the privacy of your own room, nothing but your nightlight on, brushing her delicate blond hair, matching her shoes to her dress, then sadly tucking her away before caught.

I recall kissing the bathroom mirror just for practice. I wanted to find my Ken. What girl of thirteen didn't? What a mistake we made thinking it would be that easy--that fogging up the bathroom mirror was actually like real kissing. And the barbies, I mean their plastic lips touched, but that's all. Just a perpetual smile privately between her and Ken. I imagined it close to the cool glass. They were both hard at the touch.

I started with a new "baby"--that disastrous story about a feral puppy intent on digesting the inedible. The truth is, I started there because it was easier to start there. She was tough on me. And we both grew together. But how wonderful it is to love something and simply be loved back. No words. No grudges. A puppy always forgives your moods, licks at wounds, and finds its way back into your lap. Loyal and faithful and pure in love.

The first time I kissed Dan my skin bumped. His tongue against mine was like tasting a battery. But our love story is full of words and grudges and questionable passion. It began. It ended. It began again.

Tell me, when was the first time you tasted a kiss and new it was meant only for your lips--that inexplicable connection when the lips simply meet, move together, touch in just the right way, and then you smile? It was September 10, 2006. And my Ken wasn't so plastic. His flesh was hot and soft. He didn't have a perpetual white smile. In truth, his teeth were a little crooked, hair not so perfect.

But how wonderful it is to love something and simply be loved back.

Stupid, delusional thirteen year old girl, why did you think it would be that way? The Barbie Dream House was just that: a dream. So listen girls. We're in our twenties, or maybe older. Love goes like this:

It's been a damned hard day. The puppy still isn't potty trained, the other dog is instigating a rumble, and my pot is boiling over. The laundry still isn't done. I haven't done my fair share of reading today. My legs are sore.

I have insomnia and haven't slept a full eight hours in months. I wake up every forty five minutes to see what time it is--hoping it's time to get up and I don't have to lay there desperately trying to fall asleep. He hasn't touched me in weeks. I'm unapproachable, he says. I don't like affection. That's true enough.

I'm planning graduate school. A master's degree to make me feel important because without a book in my hand I have too much time to analyse my own life and I don't really like myself very much.

He walks through the door. He's dirty. Covered in oil. The dishes aren't done because I took two sleeping pills after I woke him up for work at 5:25 am--because I always wake before the alarm at 5:30 anyway--and went to sleep in a zombie-state of consciousness from six until 9:30.

I got up. Sat on the couch. Watched TV, but couldn't tell you what was on. I just stared. The sleeping pill took several hours to wear off and I couldn't concentrate on anything. Couldn't sleep.

I chased the puppy through the house demanding that she GO WHERE SHE'S SUPPOSED TO GO, but it failed. I put her in my lap and held her for hours. I cried.

Anyways, he's walked through the door dirty.

I say how was your day, or something, and he talks for ten minutes. I'm not listening. He stops in mid sentence, looks at me, shrugs, and heads for the shower. I don't notice he's gone until I hear the water running above my head.

I finish dinner. I let the dishes rot. I serve his plate.

I refuse to write. I haven't tried to but once. He knows I love to write, but he knows I won't. I'm disappointed in myself. It shows. I haven't dressed. I haven't worn makeup for six weeks.

This is how love goes:
He ate his dinner, went to bed at 9:30pm. I watched TV. Couldn't remember it. I took a sleeping pill again. Just one. Nothing. Then I went up two hours later. I tried to wake him, but he shrugged me off mumbling, "something, something, tired." Whatever, I don't remember. Then I tried to sleep.

In the morning I wake him before the alarm. He says, "I'm awake," which he's not. Five minutes later the alarm buzzes. I hate that fucking alarm. He presses snooze. He presses snooze three more times. I want to break the fucking alarm.

Then I smack him. "Get out of bed. You fucking turned the alarm off again and it's six."

"Shit, I'm gonna be late."

Scrambling for clothes. Slams the door. That evening he comes home and kisses me. I kiss him back. We go upstairs. It's not always good, but the days it is, it's enough.

But how wonderful it is to love something and simply be loved back.