Sometimes, I pretend to be asleep so that you won’t touch me. It’s not that I don’t want you to touch me. I do. I mean, isn’t that part of why we got married? Because we couldn’t not not touch each other? I love it when you touch me. It reminds me that I am more than just someone’s Mom. It reminds me of that other life I once lived. You know, the one where the sexy underwear fit without encouraging muffin top. That other life where dinner wasn’t expected at exactly 5:27 pm and bath time meant something a little different than bubbles and rubber ducks. Where a glass of wine was savored not sucked down (or thrown out). That other life where we talked instead of texted. Where we had real and meaningful conversations instead of an email chain.
I want you to touch me. But all I have to offer you is this new but old, different version of the woman you married. I traded that lingerie for dirty sweat pants and a stained over sized t-shirt. I smell like the baby’s dinner. Somehow, I’m sticky. I’m pretty sure there are dried peas in my hair. The hard stuff these days is coffee. Lots of it. My perspective has changed. My love for you has, too. It’s deeper and more intimate. It’s more powerful and profound. And as much as I would like for you to roll over and love on me, I feel unworthy of your touch.
You tell me all the time that you don’t mind the softness of my body. That it reflects the years and love of our life together. It is the result of our two babies. You don’t care about the last ten pounds I’ve been trying to lose. For three years. But I do.
I see the pictures of our wedding day and I want, so badly, the effortless beauty of my twenties. I want to be able to eat the damn pizza and not worry about a 5 AM morning workout. I want another beer. I want to have the energy of our youth. I want the carelessness of our courtship.
I don’t want to have to try.