I spent the first five years of my second marriage muddling about in my mind. Alternately complaining and being grateful for finding someone special to spend my life with. And he was special. But, there were periods when I dwelled on the problem areas. And these were the unsettling times–the times that kicked me into change. Always seeking the balance between desire and the having of things.
In that space I discovered energy and creativity. Room to expand out and away from the domestic situation and room to explore my own imagination.
I did take a couple more courses here and there toward my degree, but also those that might correlate with performing my job better, and thereby take advantage of the city’s tuition reimbursement policy.
I got more serious about working out, strength training at home, and we bought an elliptical machine for the house. I used it more often that way. I liked my exercise routine and the way my clothes fit better. I wished that he would notice the changes in how I looked. But, unless I said something, he seemed oblivious.
“You always look beautiful to me, no matter your weight…” he would offer.
But that wasn’t good enough for me. And I didn’t trust that sort of blanket statement. I wanted more. I wanted to find a way to excite his passion, to make him ‘really’ want me more than he seemed to.
When my weight was down, my libido always went up. This presented a problem. What to do with all this energy. He only wanted so much of me, and most of the time, only when I initiated. It put me in a spot, because there seemed to be no solution other than telling myself to settle down and just live life on life’s terms.
But, my mind started to turn toward my memories of more exciting times in my sexual history. I started to think about and to write about Alan mostly. Started to obsess a little about him. Also, Bryan a little bit. I would never step out on my marriage, but, this seemed so easy and not a violation at all, considering the situation, I reasoned.
I started writing about my old sexy times when I worked at the strip club, started to fantasize.
At times, this was enough to satisfy my restlessness. At other times, I would become secretly angry and passive-aggressive. Self-protective and self-destructive. Maybe I learned this from Mom growing up. When she reached her limit with her life situation she would do something completely out of character and then blame it on us.
She would sometimes binge-drink and run off for the evening, leaving me home with my little sisters, no way of knowing where she was or when she would be back. Or sometimes she would just fly into a fit of rage and throw things around, threaten to leave and never come back.
But, here I was, all grown up. Strong enough to handle my own ‘issues’. I decided I would look up my old boyfriend, Bryan. See if he remembered me. If he still thought about me. I figured that might fill the empty space.
I opened a post office box, just like twenty years before. I mailed him a letter at his current address. He had graduated from a detention center to a real, grown-up prison. I sent him a self-addressed stamped envelope and a current photo of myself, looking lovelier, I thought, than when he had known me before.
I was seeking something. Attention. From a certain perspective that can only come from a man’s authentic attraction. I realize that kind of interest stems from the lack of the thing one desires. Or the mystery and strangeness of the object of pursuit.
The interminable, excruciating gap between the wanting and the having of things.
Megan Miles, Author 