Don’t you love the beginning of a relationship? Nothing replaces those feelings—the butterflies, the nervous laughter, the sweaty palms, the oh-my-God-I’ve-found-the-one-perfect-man-on-the-planet-and-he-wants-to-be-with-ME! It’s all kinds of awesome.
It lasts awhile. Long enough for you get hooked.
You love sitting and talking for hours, finding out all about your new love. His likes, dislikes, favorite foods, favorite songs, favorite colors…Do I need to keep going or do you get where I’m going?
Anyway, New Relationship = Nirvana
After 6 months or so, the new car smell wears off a little. His morning breath DOES indeed smell like ass, the slurping noise he makes when he drinks coffee is not so adorable anymore, and you no longer find it cute when he takes a giant dump in front of you—with the door open.
That’s when you first go, hmm, maybe he’s NOT perfect. But look how he’s helping me by taking out the garbage. And he seems to really like me. I guess I can put up with his noxious gas.
So you move on. And you put all those annoying habits aside. Well, actually you pack them away very neatly in a box and place them ever so gently on a shelf marked TO BE BROUGHT UP AT A LATER TIME. We’re women. This is what we do.
Years pass and you’re now married to the “perfect man.” And you have little “perfect children” with him. But if you didn’t know any better you’d swear you were a single parent—and he was just another kid you’re raising.
And you’re tired.
You’re tired of all the noises that come out of his mouth, nose and asshole. The sound that his feet makes as he shuffles across the hardwood floors has you drinking at a much earlier time than you used to. In fact, your old saying was AFTER 5 O’CLOCK, but now, you’re throwing back margaritas with lunch—just to make it through the day without stabbing anyone.
Do you have a drinking problem? Hell no. You have a “perfect man” problem. Where’s the 12-step program for that?
To help you cope with life as the wife of the “perfect man,” you start a blog. It’s like therapy for you. You say on the blog what you wouldn’t dare say out loud for fear of retaliation (read: divorce). And you can’t believe how much better you feel after you let it all out. And then, you find out people like it—they want to read more! So you’re basically doing the public a service and you can’t stop now! People need you!
So then (when you run out of “perfect man” material) you venture out into unchartered territory and talk about smelly vaginas and good places to hide your vibrator(s), and your favorite topic—midget porn—which you’ve actually never seen but think sounds hilarious, and before you realize it, you’re considered inappropriate and Oh-My-God-Did-You-Read-Her-Blog-Today-Does-She-Have-ANY-Boundaries?
And your answer is always No. She doesn’t.
Miraculously, your husband doesn’t read your blog. You don’t know how you’ve been able to get away with it. But you love it! And people are astonished by this notion. They ask, “What do you mean he doesn’t read it?” And you’re like, “Don’t question it! Just go with it!” And they say, “So he doesn’t know about your fascination with MIDGET PORN?” And you’re like “SSHHH. He’ll hear you!”
And you figure all is right with the universe. You get to say what you want, when you want. You’re unstoppable, the Queen of the World.
One day you go to send your husband a message on Facebook only to discover HE’S UNFRIENDED YOU.
So you ask him, “Um, did you accidentally unfriend me on Facebook?”
And he furrows his brow, then softens, and lovingly grabs you by the hand and says, “It wasn’t an accident.”
Wha wha WHA?
“What do you mean it wasn’t an accident? You don’t want to be my friend?”
He pulls you closer into him, gives you a little squeeze and says, “It’s nothing personal. I just think it would be better if we weren’t Facebook friends. You’re a little embarrassing.”
He adds, “Well YOU’RE not embarrassing. But the stuff you write about is.”
So then you read back through some of your previous posts. And you realize “perfect man” may have a point.
And then you further realize this whole I-can-say-what-I-want is just a journal of evidenced proof of how “unperfect” YOU are. And your plan may have actually backfired.
So because of this, you’re one less friend on Facebook—and it’s the one person who is legally bound to BEING your friend. You conclude that you might be a total failure. And the feet shuffling and the noise making that drives you mad seem insignificant and petty in light of this new development.
And that’s when you realize YOU are the reason the honeymoon is over.