The loneliness comes with the territory, I guess.
The sizzling Pu-Pu Platter of any love affair’s steamy first chapters cools off a little with time, with air.
But then kids come along, if you’re lucky, and you do a bulldozer with your arm, full throttle sweeping the dusty bones of young lust down on to the floor so you can make room for new kinds of love; for high stacks of original passion.
Still, don’t misunderstand me. It’s not like I’m sending out the invites to the funeral for my mojo. I’m still standing, ladies. I’m still walking around after the kids’ swimming lessons, checking out the scene.
I’m still out there, exploiting my one-year old son’s cuteness, in the supermarket, when they smile deep at him, and then – for a second – at me, too.
And dudes, I might not look like much of a threat, but if I was to dig around in the basement and roll out the big guns, the Howitzers of charm and chivalry, if I was to hit up Rite-Aid and grab a new tank of Old Spice, trust me: you’d be quivering/texting your moms when the saloon doors flung open and it was my silhouette standing there.
Or maybe not.
I don’t even know.
I mean, I’m married, man. And I’m half-decent at that, too. And in all honesty, I’m still wild in love with my lady. I still have mad lust for her; check it out, right?
I have a stack of photos of my wife, Monica. I call them “My Monicas”. Stop laughing, yo.
These pictures, they’re from all across the board, from this year and from ten years ago, nothing dirty, no nudies or anything like that. And they run with me down the long musty halls of Imagination High, where I still hang, even at 40, sneaking smokes in the bathroom stalls and leaning up against my locker like a husky James Dean, but okay: maybe a little less cool.
I keep a stack of pictures of my wife/my Baby Mama for private dancing. And that’s gotta mean something true and real lurks inside me. How many dads married seven solid/faithful years have that?
So, why am I veering off the straight and narrow lately?
These things start so innocently, don’t they? There’s me: the middle-age married daddy standing there in the park (i.e. the living room) with a cup of coffee while my kids frolic on the jungle gym (i.e. on the living room floor, with clumps of dog hair).
Then, out of nowhere, there she is, a hardworking mommy (successful television star) standing across the playground (i.e. the living room), over by the baby swings (on the TV in our living room) and she’s looking at me (looking at the camera) and, oh man/my heart is racing/doing flips/she’s coming over here (she’s on the TV still).
Now, we’re talking to each other, laughing, playing it cool (no, we are not).
I don’t know how we get there but we are talking about our kids and how we get them to eat their vegetables and we’re just laughing and laughing (she’s dancing a dance she danced long ago, in a TV studio far away) and at one point she lays her hand gently, on my coat sleeve; the Lite Touch of Forbidden Danger (to be clear: no, she does not).
And then, it’s all a blur, but me and the kids are walking down the sidewalk/hovering above the sidewalk (we’re still standing there in the living room).
And I feel so energized/so alive. I feel so awesome and terrible inside.
But still. I know I’m right where I belong.