I know the date of the first time I peed in front of my husband.
Oh sure, I’ve yelled at him to pull over during long trips and I’ve skedaddled to the back of the car to pee alongside the highway, but he couldn’t see me.
But the very first time I allowed him to view me availing myself of the porcelain facilities was March of 2006. A full year-and-a-half into our marriage. I know because I blogged about it:
Before I got married, I declared I absolutely WOULD NOT be one of those girls that performs all manner of bathroom ablutions in front of their betrothed. Peeing publicly was a right strictly reserved for my gaggle of girlfriends, particularly on those drunken nights out with the gal gang. And up until yesterday, I’d kept up my end of the pee pact. I’ve never seen The Surge pee. The same can’t be said for boyfriends of yesteryear, but I’d hoped to maintain some sort of mystique for my husband. He is forced to observe me in all manner of compromising positions anyway, must he bear unfortunate witness to peeing too?
I’m certainly not embarrassed to pee in front of him…he’s seen me expel all manner of vomit in the most atrocious way possible (filling the cupholders in my truck to the brim on the way home from the FOX Christmas Party 2004) Yes. I did. It’s just that…the pee pact was an unspoken one…a gallant affording of respect from one spouse to another.
And most certainly if anything MORE than pee needs to be eliminated, I’m all about running the water, coughing strategically to mask any unpleasant splashing that may echo from our very small, acoustic bathroom, reverberating horrifyingly throughout our size small apartment.
But now our silent pee agreement is broken and it was I that pissed it away. Much the same way I can’t reclaim my virginity, I can’t go back.
Eight years into our marriage I look back and laugh at silly old me bemoaning the broken pee pact. Anyone who has been married for more than a few years knows that any mystique marriage holds in the early years is out the window quicker than I bolt from the room should Serge unleash his inner gasses nowadays.
Speaking of inner gasses, that’s the first thing on my list of 10 things I never thought I’d let my husband see (or hear) me do.
What do you think? Are these things all just part of living and loving or are there some things each individual should just keep to themselves? What I really want to know is, if your husband witnesses you pooping, is there a slow but steady decline in attraction or does he not give a *ahem* sh!t?
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