I recommend marriage.

Or perhaps I recommend mutually supportive relationships: either way, I wouldn’ t know as I’ve never been in a long term, same country sustained one before.

Of course, with a lead in like that you can guarantee that one partner has been a bitch and the other partner particularly understanding and, given what long term readers know about me from what I have blurted out here (pretty much everything I am thinking at mostly inappropriate times), it isn’t a stretch to assume the bitch is me.

Last Thursday I had had a very long day. Up at five for fixing husband’s breakfast and lunch before I went to the gym, then a long ten hour working day. Lots of people who were hard to work with, mutliples rain showers and treacherous driving conditions, problems with logistics: it was a very hard day. Most days I feel I earn my wages (none of that ‘oh, you are so lucky to have this job – you get paid to go out and have fun’ rubbish; I am paid to make sure you have fun and it doesn’t just happen – I facilitate it) but that day I really wasn’t being paid enough.

Then, after work, I had to drop by a friend’s place to pick up supplies. She has her own tourism business and I am running it for a month for her while she is away on holiday. I had had a raging headache all day, no time for lunch and it was after 8.30 when I walked in the door.

I was exhausted, feeling ill and it was probably only because my husband planted himself in my path, lips outstretched, that he got kissed. I mean, I wanted to kiss him,  I always want to kiss him; I just didn’t have any spare energy to deviate from my projected path. He didn’t get talk; instead he got a missus who started peeling off her clothes as she walked towards the bedroom.

The shoes came off at the front door; the panties wrapped around the bedside lamp and the rest formed a trail in between. I crawled between the sheets, said , “Please bring me food”, ate food when it was brought and dropped into a sleep so intense it might have been a coma.

So, a recap. My husband greets me at the door with loving embraces and fond words. I vaguely blink at him, shove my lips at him as a bulldozer device, ignore whatever his voice is saying, demand food in the only four words I speak all night (I grunted yes/no to a couple of questions and that was it) and pass out.

The man is a saint. I should feel ashamed of my behaviour (I did apologise the next morning because I recognise that it does smack of treating him as a chattel) but I honestly could not have summoned up one more iota of energy to behave differently.

And if he had not been there? Why, I would have made it probably only as far as the couch and there would have been no dinner. I don’t remember anybody being that caring to me in the past or, more to the point, I don’t remember ever being sure enough of anybody to let myself just be myself. It’s really nice.


About quirkycharm

I like to think that I have a certain quirky charm but I am probably being optimistic. Acquired taste, perhaps, which many don't acquire. This is about my fifth blog out there. My hosting companies kept going out of business or my IT exhusband kept hacking into them and I would move again. I don't do twitter, I barely do facebook, I don't try and 'monetize' my blog. I love my husband, my grown children and my job and this particular incarnation of oversharing my life comes at a time when I am the most content that I have ever been. I write always, sporadically during the good stuff and exhaustingly during the bad.
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