Dancing monkey

This post originally ran at MrsFatass.com in October, 2009. It’s not the post I originally wrote for this date. But it will be an interesting comparison when I do finally get the guts to hit publish on that one, because Trophy Husband and I barely resemble the people I wrote about in the post below anymore. The woman in this story is rediscovering a comfort in her skin. It’s somehow innocent. It’s sweet. And it’s also not who I am today. 

Anyway, climb with me into the Fatass Time Machine and take a trip back to October, 2009, when my blog was a mere 6 months old…

Here’s the deal. Today’s post is going to deal with the subject of . So, if you are at all squeamish when talking about topics dealing with nudity, arousal, desire, quality, quantity, or anything concerning sexiness in general, it might be best to just sit this one out. And by you, I mean anyone who might be a parent, relative, in-law, former teacher, man or woman of the cloth, or anyone else who I might someday be expected to make eye contact with. Now, I think throughout the pages of this blog I have made it clear that though we have our issues, I have married a good man. Capital G capital M. He’s warm and funny and reliable and stable and he loves his family. Capital L .And he’s also predictable. We’re predictable. (Capital P). In fact, just about every argument we ever have always boils down to this: He wants more sex. With me, of course. But more. And truthfully, it is a quantity thing, but also a quality thing. It’s a lesson I’m continually learning that his urge for more, um, is deeply rooted both in biology and emotion. Sex is the way he feels the most loved and most connected, not just the most, ummm, satisfied. (By the by, I’ll save the part about what our arguments boil down to for me for another day). Anyway, if you want to know the story of our years together, you can see it all over my body. I mean, 10 years ago my body was simple. Straightforward. Fearless. Now? Well, now it’s more complex. It’s got more spice. The curves are different. There are scars. My hair is sprinkled with silver. The lines on my face are beginning to define themselves. I squint now, when I read or concentrate. I notice that my shoulders sometimes curve forward, as if to wrap around my chest, protecting my heart and everything I hold in there. Because now there is so much more that I do. Hold in there.And as this story was playing out all over my body, there was he. Trophy Husband. Wanting to enjoy the spice.

But me? Not so much. Really, I’m not all that touchy-feely. Once the babies came, I had to learn to be because they needed me to. But it didn’t come easy. I know mommies are supposed to be hardwired to snuggle and caress and bond and nurse, and I was, to an extent. I just had nothing left over. For anyone else. After the hugging and the nursing and the snuggling and the loving, by the time they were tucked into bed, when Trophy Husband would give me The Look, all I wanted to do was hide.

However, I wanted to remain happily married, and so I got curious about The Look. For so long I just assumed that men were just not as deep as women, and The Look was simply all about wanting to, well, pardon me, but DO IT. When I began to learn that The Look wasn’t simply about the sex, but also about the connection? Well, that was huge. I mean, I love complex. So to learn that there was some new layer to be discovered about my man? It made me want to do better for him. And I began to understand that all of the changes in my body weren’t just happening to me. They were happening to us. He could see each an every one. But the difference was, while he wanted to just dig in and enjoy everything new and interesting, I did not. I did not like the changes. I did not want more, um, character. I wanted to hide it.

So. I kind of became his Dancing Monkey. I learned quickly what I needed to do (in the shortest amount of time) to give him what he needed so that he’d be satisfied, and so that we could go back to the non-physical side of our relationship, which was fun and happy and supportive and comfortable so I would be satisfied. Until next week. When I would dance for him again.

By the way, he’d be mortified to know that I at any time in my life referred to myself as his Dancing Monkey. MOR-TI-FIED. Just saying.

Anyhow. Here’s what’s changing. Ready? Here goes . . . I’m getting my groove back. My mojo, if you will. And call me vain, tell me that I’m part of the problem with the world today, silently judge me for all of my superficiality. But part of the reason I’m getting my groove back?

I’m getting my body back, too.

Yes, for those of you playing along at home, taking care of my body = wanting it to be seen. And touched. And loved. And more than the obligatory once a week.

Now, this isn’t to say that I don’t cry headache on occasion when I get The Look. And it is also hard to make him understand sometimes that I don’t need to hurry and rush and do everything all at once. Because I think this reappearance of The Mojo needs to be savored. Every rediscovered piece of fearlessness deserves more than a minute in the spotlight before another one is sought.

I think it’s only fair.

 

Sue O’Lear is a wife, mom, Zumba enthusiast, and writer. Her blog, Mrs. Fatass, is a source of humor and motivation for anyone trying to live a healthier life. She resides in Wilson, North Carolina with her husband and her two children, teaches Zumba, and is battling an addiction to Instagram. Follow her on Twitter.