I'm not Anne Bancroft
I not. I feel that I must apologize to anyone who may stumble across this blog looking for *that* Mrs. Robinson. That Mrs. Robinson was sexy and a little scary and is probably responsible for many young men going on to pursue careers in plastics.
I, on the other hand, never been accused of seducing anyone. I don't have mid-day trysts in hotel rooms. I don't know how to make putting on nylons look sexy, and I am certain that I would never, ever cheat on my husband with Dustin Hoffman.
I am Mrs. Robinson though and I do appreciate having my own theme song.
I am a recent Mrs. Robinson, having just recently finished jumping through all of the legal hoops needed to ditch my original, very hard to pronounce but well loved, last name and secure a more iconic moniker. I'm still adjusting to it though, much as I am probably still adjusting to the idea of being a Mrs. anything. I still giggle a little inwardly when I hear my husband mention "his wife".
I've been thinking a lot today about what it means to be a wife. Or, more specifically, what it means to be married and to share your life, your space, your weirdness with someone else. I love being married. I love being married to Michael, who is smart and funny and who is one of the best people I know, but sometimes the intimacy of married life surprises me.
Don't be alarmed. I'm not going to start talking about our sex life now. If you are interested in that sort of thing (pervert) you will just have to wait until some other post.
I'm surprised by the intimacy of daily life, by how quickly we come to know the others most private habits and the smallest details of their routines. I find that learning Michael's rhythms makes me feel secure and connected to him but the knowledge that he is well on his way to figuring me out is a little scary. I am prone to being secretive about certain things, especially things relating to food. So, as much as it is somewhat unnatural to post about my sugar lust on a blog that anyone could read, it is just as unnatural to be honest about that with my husband.
Last night I brought home a one pound of Brach's Autumn Mix, that delightful cavity in a bag with two kinds of candy corn and a bag of mellocreame pumpkins. If I lived by myself, I would have sat down in front of the tv (which would be tuned to something terribly trashy, most likely a reality show involving models or spoiled rich kids) and I would probably have eaten candy until I was sick to my stomach. Instead, I brought it home, tried to hide it from my husband, failed and had it confiscated. Michael is under strict orders to hide or destroy all candy in the house and no amount of whining ("but I have PMS! This is an emergency"), negotiating ("Okay, just give me the pumpkins. I'll totally put out tonight if I can have the pumpkins", or pouting ("You don't love me. A man who loved me would give me pumpkins") would dissuade him from his mission. He is being very dedicated to helping me stick to my plan. I hate that.
The pumpkins have likely joined the scale, which is also in hiding right now. I have a bit of a scale obsession. I like to weigh myself every single time I go into the bathroom and part of the new plan is to not weigh myself until the end of October. Hiding the scale was partially Michael's idea. He thinks I worry too much about the numbers on the scale and that I should just work on being healthy. He is very reasonable and logical about these things. I hate that too.
I know, logically, that giving up sugar and caffeine will improve my health. I realize that improving my health is a worthwhile goal in and of itself, but I'd be lying if I said that I don't care about losing weight too. I care. I care a lot, which is why the scale is going to stay hidden for a while... or until I can figure out where he hid it.
I, on the other hand, never been accused of seducing anyone. I don't have mid-day trysts in hotel rooms. I don't know how to make putting on nylons look sexy, and I am certain that I would never, ever cheat on my husband with Dustin Hoffman.
I am Mrs. Robinson though and I do appreciate having my own theme song.
I am a recent Mrs. Robinson, having just recently finished jumping through all of the legal hoops needed to ditch my original, very hard to pronounce but well loved, last name and secure a more iconic moniker. I'm still adjusting to it though, much as I am probably still adjusting to the idea of being a Mrs. anything. I still giggle a little inwardly when I hear my husband mention "his wife".
I've been thinking a lot today about what it means to be a wife. Or, more specifically, what it means to be married and to share your life, your space, your weirdness with someone else. I love being married. I love being married to Michael, who is smart and funny and who is one of the best people I know, but sometimes the intimacy of married life surprises me.
Don't be alarmed. I'm not going to start talking about our sex life now. If you are interested in that sort of thing (pervert) you will just have to wait until some other post.
I'm surprised by the intimacy of daily life, by how quickly we come to know the others most private habits and the smallest details of their routines. I find that learning Michael's rhythms makes me feel secure and connected to him but the knowledge that he is well on his way to figuring me out is a little scary. I am prone to being secretive about certain things, especially things relating to food. So, as much as it is somewhat unnatural to post about my sugar lust on a blog that anyone could read, it is just as unnatural to be honest about that with my husband.
Last night I brought home a one pound of Brach's Autumn Mix, that delightful cavity in a bag with two kinds of candy corn and a bag of mellocreame pumpkins. If I lived by myself, I would have sat down in front of the tv (which would be tuned to something terribly trashy, most likely a reality show involving models or spoiled rich kids) and I would probably have eaten candy until I was sick to my stomach. Instead, I brought it home, tried to hide it from my husband, failed and had it confiscated. Michael is under strict orders to hide or destroy all candy in the house and no amount of whining ("but I have PMS! This is an emergency"), negotiating ("Okay, just give me the pumpkins. I'll totally put out tonight if I can have the pumpkins", or pouting ("You don't love me. A man who loved me would give me pumpkins") would dissuade him from his mission. He is being very dedicated to helping me stick to my plan. I hate that.
The pumpkins have likely joined the scale, which is also in hiding right now. I have a bit of a scale obsession. I like to weigh myself every single time I go into the bathroom and part of the new plan is to not weigh myself until the end of October. Hiding the scale was partially Michael's idea. He thinks I worry too much about the numbers on the scale and that I should just work on being healthy. He is very reasonable and logical about these things. I hate that too.
I know, logically, that giving up sugar and caffeine will improve my health. I realize that improving my health is a worthwhile goal in and of itself, but I'd be lying if I said that I don't care about losing weight too. I care. I care a lot, which is why the scale is going to stay hidden for a while... or until I can figure out where he hid it.
posted by Mrs.Robinson at
2:24 PM
1 Comments:
it's the intimacy that ends up defining the partnership, you know. it's what lets a marriage last for the long haul. anyone who tells you the sex should stay as hothothot as it was at first, or else your love isn't real, is a big far liar. it's not about the sex, as keen as that can be. it's the littlest things that tie you together and keep you there -- knowing that no one else on the planet can read your moods so perfectly (even when it pisses you off), that no on else can know exactly what kind of hug you need (or don't) at each and every moment, that no one else can see you all sweaty and smelly and just cranky and ugly in every way and tell you they don't want to hug you b/c you're gross but that they still love you and will kiss you the very minute you get out of the shower...
it's about waking up holding hands, sleeping with his pillow when he's gone, and just being able to laugh with each other. the jokes only he gets. the looks he can send that say novels' worth of commentary that only you get.
and when you come to finally know, after years of his still being there no matter how just plain dumb you are over and over again, that this person SEES YOU. fully. really. totally.
and he loves it all.
that's the gift. _that_ is intimacy.
By
Chris, at 5:04 PM
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