Sunday, 28 September 2008
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Impotence
NO NO, not Al… it’s me. And get your mind out of the gutter - I'm not talking about that kind of impotence. I feel like I’ve failed Al as a wife. He asked me to buy a loaf of bread, and I didn’t. He almost never asks me to do any errands, and this ONE time he asks, I failed to deliver. Because I was reading manga. It’s so stupid how one trivial task becomes a parasite that invades and devours you from the inside out. A measly… loaf… of… bread. Of course, if you ask Al, he thinks nothing of this, especially since it was just so he’d have carbs to munch on with his soup. I whipped out a box of saltines; problem solved. But the parasite of doubt and self-loathing still lives on, as all my shortcomings as a wife unfold before my eyes.
I have not…
- prepared a single meal for him to take to work during his nightfloat
- cooked for him in maybe a year
- cleaned the house in forever
- paid the bills yesterday like I said I would
- finished updating my resume & job hunt
- picked up the nasty nasty monster bugs I keep killing with Raid (they’re frickin’ HUGE, like flying daddy-long-legs; tiny body with lonnng appendages). I spray ‘em and cry and wait for Al to come home and rescue me.
- walked the dogs regularly
- attended nor called in sick for kickboxing class on Sat
- etc.
I’m greedy, lazy, sloppy, anal, demanding, unrealistic, fussy, unhealthy, strict, and downright crazy. For the most part, these traits magically meld together to make our marriage entertaining, like a manga story where I’m the loser heroine who miraculously lands and amuses an adorable, patient husband, and now she starts to develop all these complexes of inferiority. Maybe this really started to manifest when I was gabbing with Al’s aunt, raving about how awesome Al is and how much he does around the house: dishes, lawn care, walks dogs, taxes, etc. She asked, “So what do you do?” ~ paralyzed silence ~ “Uh… I do laundry, pay bills, uh… grocery shopping, scheduling appointments and vacations, uh….” After a question like that, well of COURSE I want to prove to her that I’m a good wife and that I’m treating Al well, like he deserves. Well… am I? (>_<);;
There’s something about being with Al that forces me to be so painfully honest with myself. Upon honest introspection, all the greediness comes spilling out. I LIKE having a trophy husband. It wasn’t what I was originally looking for, but it sure is nice to have one. I WANT people to “ooh” and “ah” over him. I also want people to consider me a trophy wife. If we walk into a room and people are intimidated, I enjoy it in some sort of weird, twisted sort of way. But that’s just image. Image is hypocrisy, if there’s no integrity to back it up. And the reality is this: I’m a lazy, greedy woman who farts and picks her nose in her sleep, who hates doing dishes, lawnwork, vacuuming, and so much more. I do try to work hard, and nothing ever seems like it’s enough. Probably ‘cause I’m just so foolishly heads-over-heels in love with Al. I don’t want to drag him down from being any less of a great man. I don’t want him to slow down to go at my lazy pace. I’m scared that someday… someday he’ll wake up and wonder why he married me. The logical part of my brain knows he loves me, he’ll always love me, and that’s that. But the darned woman part of my brain is thinking all the rest of this stuff. The darned competitive part of me fears that other people wonder why he’s with me, or mutters behind my back that he could do so much better. And the parasite slowly sucks the life out of me… Like hell would I ever roll-over and let that happen without a fight. This world is not kind, so I expect no freebies in life. SEIZE LIFE BY THE HORNS! The only footholds you get in life are the ones you carve yourself! The only way to stop people from thinking these things is to never give them a chance to think it to begin with! I must become more successful, wealthy, clever, hard-working, healthier, patient, and more! I must be more! Better looks! Better clothes! Better hair! Better reputation! And I try to run at the speed of light.
Then Al just looks at me from the couch and asks, “Are you ok? Why don’t you just sit down and watch Terminator: Sarah Conner Chronicles with me?” Even the dogs look at me like, “Mommy, what are you doing? Come chill with us…” ~ Liz helplessly slumping down wall ~
The realization sinks in. It’s not about fulfilling what other people wants or opinions. It’s Al that matters, not anybody else. He doesn’t care how much I prove myself. He doesn’t want me to run at the speed of light, or be devoured by parasites of doubt and self-loathing. He just wants me to be by his side. And as always, I realize, gee, God’s probably the same way. I try so hard to be a “good Christian” that I end up trying to do so much stuff that I end up missing just being with God. There’s something so weirdly gratifying about criticizing and justifying your self-worth on your own power, rather than accepting the acceptance others freely give you. I wonder if Martha felt like this. I can see how she got so frustrated with Mary. Arrrrgh…
Anyways, for those of you Al-fans who blame me for the death of his Xanga, Al also has similar struggles. He sees me struggle and spiral into a vortex of self-loathing, and then he feels somewhat responsible, that he’s lacking the good-husband department. Then I hug him and he falls asleep in my arms, which drives me nuts. He insists, “But it’s soooooo comfortable and relaxing! I can’t help it…” as he starts to drool. Then he completely forgets to blog altogether. So yes, I guess I am responsible for the death of his Xanga. Sorry… so as a reward for reading this long blog, here’s another Al-moment:
Kickboxing tangent: I joined a kickboxing Muay Thai class a little more than a month ago. It’s not the frilly cardio-kickboxing-wanna-be crap, it’s the real thing where you really learn how to fight. And it’s ridiculously expensive. But it’s an amazing workout. Al took some Wing Chun in the past, so he keeps hopping around and challenging me to a Wing Chun vs Muay Thai competition. We spar a little. Isn’t it… romantic? Gimme a year and then we'll have a real sparring match! I started to show Al some of our training workouts, and in less than 5 minutes he was sweating. In 15 minutes he was having a blast. In 30 min, he was horrified and cried out, “This is like a reverse mugging!!!! You pay them first, and then they beat you up!!!”
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