Until relatively recently, my weekend morning routine was: get up same time as on a weekday, do all my usual weekday stuff, then, about 8 o’clock, make two cups of coffee, take them back to bed, wake Hubby with a cuddle, maybe have sex. Sometimes it was better than it had ever been, possibly because I was subconsciously thinking ‘I’m only doing this to have sex, I might as well enjoy myself’. But then he started getting up at 7:30, maybe to avoid such encounters, maybe not, I couldn’t possibly guess.
Yesterday morning, I thought, maybe I should try it again, but earlier, take him by surprise before he gets up. But what sort of message might he take from it? And if he really is trying to avoid me, presumably nothing would happen anyway, just more frustration. Anyway, while I was deciding what to do, he got up.
There have been periods all through our marriage when we haven’t had sex for months and months. I always used to assume it was my fault, that I wasn’t good enough for him in some way. We never talked about it. Usually it resolved itself in the end, like with everything else, we just keep going, and sometimes it doesn’t seem too bad, and I think, well, I guess it’s just me and my unrealistic expectations of life, I should just be happy for what I’ve got.
The last time was this time last year after my op. I suppose he thought it wouldn’t be a good idea to touch my breast, and it wasn’t at first, but it went on for months until I took the initiative, round about November time, I think, certainly after I came back from Cyprus. And then for a while, as I said, when it did happen, it was better than it had ever been.
Maybe it’s all just down to stress and tiredness, him travelling all that way every day and working stupid hours on this project that’s giving him so much grief, and me tied up with all my other stuff. And even though I really want sex, I don’t want to push it because I would probably find myself back in this situation again:
http://melinda-in-surreality.blog.co.uk/2007/08/

Well, there I go, drivelling on about my non-existent sex life, I know I shouldn’t, but I tell myself that no one will actually read this anyway so it doesn’t matter. What should I put in the title line? Hmmm… something nice and innocuous, I think. What the hell am I doing, anyway, talking about this stuff? Once again, I think how bizarre this whole thing is, and wonder what drives me to do it.
Maybe I should try and write a poem. Only, somehow, the situation doesn’t seem to lend itself to poetry, apart from that one above. And poems write themselves, or else they don’t. Well, maybe that’s not quite true. I’m sure if I put my mind to it I could come up with something. Only I don’t think I can be bothered. Somehow, none of it seems important enough.