Loving Dirty Underwear

Our wedding day, August 23, 2000.

I did my fair share of dating. By fair share, I mean what I feel was fair and enough that I didn't need to share myself with anyone else. High school wasn't the highlight of my life, social or otherwise, so very little dating went on and when I got out of high school I was convinced that there was no one romantically interested in a weirdo like me. I had gay friends who fulfilled the part of me that wanted to hear "You look hot" or "Let me pick you up for dinner, sweetie". I knew how to masturbate, so looking to get laid wasn't making my to-do list at the time.

My longest relationship, before meeting my husband, lasted a couple of months and ended when this particular guy visited me in Vegas and informed me that he wanted to give up his whole life and move in with me. The desperately needy thing was a turn off and I dumped him before he headed back home. I had one relationship (if you can call it that) which ended after I drove 40 minutes to bring Mr. Faker homemade chicken noodle soup and found him in bed with a girl whom he introduced to me as his girlfriend. There was the guy with a mullet who took me on a ride down State Street on his bullet bike and forced me to question the type of men I attracted. If they weren't in a band (equals jobless) than they lived with their mom (equals will love her more than you). My batting average wasn't very good. One of the band guys took me to his sister's house, where he lived on the couch, and proceeded to treat me in a manner that I imagine most prostitutes would find disturbing. A couple of weeks later, he introduced me to his girlfriend after I surprised him by showing up to one of his shows. Yeah, I've been that girl a few times.

I wasn't made to withstand the "bliss" of having a random guy buy me a drink in a bar, ask for my number and then fuck my best friend the next weekend. I've never enjoyed having strangers buy me drinks, I'm clear that there is an expectation. My parents taught me that nothing in life is free, so that shit never worked on me. I don't like wondering if you want to hold my hand or kiss me at the end of our date. I find no joy in hearing you call your mom a horrendous bitch or informing me that you have two kids you never see because their mom is cunt. It tells me a lot about a man who speak about women in derogatory terms and I don't like it.

Then one day it all changed. I met someone who worked, went to school, and respected me. He wasn't in a band (which makes sense if you have ever heard him sing) and after 13 years, I have never walked in to find him fucking anyone else. Or introducing me to his girlfriend. We had new love that eventually grew into saggy boobed, spare tire love. While some may tout the heart palpitating joy of new love, I will take old love every day of the week. The longer I wake up next to the same farting rear end, the more I realize that I wasn't cut out for single.

I like consistent. I like waking up to the same bad breath, the same inability to take a quiet shower, the same pair of holey underwear and the same drink cups left in every corner of the house. I love washing aforementioned holey underwear and turning the one leg of your jeans inside out before I throw them in the washer. It is a little piece of heaven when you gently caress my back and ask me if I am up for one more show. I am totally up for one more show. I was built for long, smelly, old, fat, nasty love. That new stuff is highly overrated and I get the same butterflies I did the first time you kissed me, except now I don't ever wonder if it will be the last time. We will kiss again tomorrow and the next day and then we will fight about money or who is getting up with the kids. I will apologize and so will you and I'll curse your dirty underwear after you leave for work. But I wouldn't have it any other way.

  Our first 5k together, May 2013.

Don't forget to head over to mythirtyspot.com where I have a new article about raising boys and why I was scared shitless to do it.