A post about dating

Posted on September 14, 2008. Filed under: Personal, Relationships | Tags: , , , |

So, I wanted to start this post off by whining about how I’ve never, actually been on a real date.

And then I remembered two lovely times (there were eggrolls and scones)—when I had. Been on dates, I mean.

Granted, I was still doing the whole “dating is the eighth deadliest sin” and still was trying to make myself believe that I was really on board with the whole “letting my parents (dad) PICK MY HUSBAND” thing.

Anyways–where was I? Oh yes. Having only been on two real dates… (that I can recall….if any of my spurned lovers want to remind me of ones I’ve missed–that’s fine.)

(Spurned? Who am I kidding? They’ve all dumped me……..Well. Other than this one guy–but again, we weren’t even really “dating”, so it doesn’t count. Although, he was the first one to send me a really long, angsty broken hearted letter, which, seeing as I sent many of those to the guys who’ve dumped me–it was an eye opening experience.)

I feel that I have missed a lot in the romance/men department.

Enter: PANIC! Because nothing says “romance” like four years of being in a committed relationship that has produced a three year old.

Sexy.

Well, to be fair–there’s pleny of sexy.

But, as I’ve heard it said before….”The whole point of having a girlfriend is effortless sex!”

Toss in someone to clean the house and wow, that sounds a lot like marriage.

And, ok—that’s not fair, because John is an incredible, wonderful partner. I could not ask for a more perfectforme person to be in a committed relationship with….to have chosen to built a family with.

But when the only person who’s given you roses in more than a year is your dear friend’s boyfriend as a thank you for having them over for (a slightly traumatizing vegetarian) dinner?

That’s a problem for me.

Also a problem? Trying to communicate that at 2:30 am after the Saturday night dinner party wine is still at the table.

I feel very frustrated with my situation. Here I am in a fantastic, committed relationship and I’m just now realizing I really wanted to experience (freely, in any kind of quantity and without constant guilt and angst) the whole dating/men thing.

Which it is not an exaggeration to say that I’ve wanted since I was six.

I mean, instead of Valentines Day–my friends and I would celebrate “Future Anticipation Day”….in anticipation of having a boy sent us flowers/a card/chocolate/pleasesomethingod. My father is the only man to have ever given me flowers. My cousin–whom I dearly love—took me to my senior prom—and I can CLEARLY remember the TWO times I was asked to dance at the THREE proms I attended. (I was homeschooled…don’t ask) I kept myself from flirting–because that was the “pure” thing to do and, in an oddly unrealted phenomenon, was completely and totally ignored by the male populations at both my church and my homeschool group. (Other than Leon. I love you!!!) I did the whole “not dating thing”, I did the whole purity thing, I guarded my heart, I saved myself-

Because you were supposed to get all of that fluffy, gooey feel good stuff once you were married.

So, when I married John–it was like, ok, finally. I can do this whole romance/touching thing. Because it’s ok now. God’s cool with romance when you’re married.

And then in the first year of our relationship:

1) the most memorable experience of our honeymoon was that it was the first time I’d been camping were you have to dig your own toilet

2) we sort of stopped having sex there for a little while

3) the only sexy lingerie I bought was STOLEN from our laundry room

4) I find out he doesn’t even like lingerie

5) I was informed that “it would be a cold day in hell before he would celebrate Valentines Day” and

6) I got pregnant

Our first anniversary, I was 8 months pregnant. I took three sips of champagne, put my feet in a hot tub, became violently ill and threw up all night.

And then I think we might have had awkward sex–but my memory is dim.

So. I really don’t think that spontaneous roses more than once a year is too much to ask.

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