One Day, You’ll Have To Ask

When I watched This is 40 a couple of years ago, there was this uncomfortable scene where the husband is spread eagle on the bed, a hand held mirror pointed at his rectum, and his wife walks in their bedroom. He asks her for help with some growth or painful sore he has found on his nether regions. I remember thinking “Nope, never me. Even if by some act of God I do live to be 40, I will never ask my spouse to do that.” It didn’t even take turning 40 for me to become the person who uses hand held mirrors to investigate their rectum.

If only that was the reflection I saw.

If only that was the reflection I saw.

At some point we all have to ask someone we love to do a very uncomfortable thing and hope that they will love us anyway. Or we maim ourselves in the process of keeping our pride. My brother’s girlfriend sent me this text last week after a run in with a Costco sports bra.

“A month ago I bought these sports bras from Costco, thinking they were the right size. I was so excited to try them on when I got home. So I put it on and it’s really tight, but I think “Hell, I’ll lose weight and they will fit just right.” Wrong. I go to take it off and it won’t budge. I’m thinking “Oh fuck, I’m going to have to ask my boyfriend to help me out of this thing.” So after bouncing around like a crazy person, pulling and tugging, I was finally free. I thought I was going to need a chainsaw to get it off. Then your sister texted me and said she was pretty sure she had the same bra and that it was similar to a straight jacket. If you want to feel tied down and never free again, you should go buy one.”

Thanks, but I’m already married. And Costco isn’t where I buy intimate apparel. Costco is where I buy 6 pounds of butter and a cake the size of New Jersey. However, the shame of needing someone you love to free you from clothing, I do understand. The hubs once cut our first born out of a onesie after she shit herself so profusely that he was unable to see any other options. I came home to a naked baby and brown onesie in the trash can that looked like a kindergartner had given up on a Pinterest project. These things happen.

ISO: Chainsaw for immediate removal. No questions asked.

ISO: Chainsaw for immediate removal. No questions asked.

When I needed to ask for the unaskable help, my husband had found me splayed across our queen size bed with only a tank top on, the look of fear in my eyes. I was spread eagle, legs in the air, but instead of a hand held mirror I was using my make up mirror, the one with 1000 times magnification. Because looking at your rectum isn’t vomit inducing enough with a regular mirror. With tears in my eyes I said to my hubs “I can’t even sit down. I either have a really progressive STD or an ingrown hair that is larger than my butt cheek. Please, please. I’ve tried everything. Will you just look at it? That’s all…just look and tell me what it is.”

If you have ever met me, you know that wasn’t it. How could it be? My husband hunkered down like a professional ass doctor and began examining me with such precision and gentle hands, I wondered if he had any open appointments for my yearly pap smear.

“You have a really infected ingrown hair. There is no head on it, but I can try to pop it if you want me to.”

Look can see the ingrown hair.

Look closely…you can see the ingrown hair.

This was a profound moment in our relationship. This was the moment I realized that I could never get a divorce. Ever. There would be no judge on the planet who would grant me a divorce after my hubs went in and explained the kind of horrors he was subjected to in our marriage. I imagine the judge taking me aside and saying “Listen lady, the fact that your husband lacerated an ingrown hair on your ass is really more than any person on this planet will ever do for you. Do you understand that? Then he continued to have sexual intercourse with you? You can’t divorce this man. You will be perpetually lonely and be forced to pop your own ingrown ass hair. Is that what you want?”

And he would be right. I’m obligated to this man forever. He carefully took a disinfected needle and did the kind of surgery that most people get reimbursed for through insurances companies. He even checked in on my ass boil two days later to make sure i was healing properly and to apply some Neosporin.

One day the hubs may need to cut me out of a Costco sports bra and in a couple decades I may have to cut him out of an adult diaper. I think that’s what love looks like.

If You Want A Secret Life, Follow Me

Being a secret agent or CIA operative is definitely on my list of things I would love to do, but probably never will. (Along with running a marathon and doing a stand-up routine.) It’s the allure of having two separate, secret lives that are both filled with amazing people and experiences you can never divulge to either group. I would love to come home from a job of assassinating some underground operative, throw my jacket on the couch, and say “Work was fine. Nothing really exciting.” I do that now, but it’s painfully true. I’ve never lived a secret life. I’ve been that person who did all the “right” things like getting married, having kids, baking cookies, and getting a reasonable mortgage. I secretly don’t have any secrets. But last week…I had a secret life. It’s the kind of secret life I can’t tell you about because then it wouldn’t be a secret and you would probably look at me in horror the next time you saw me in the grocery store. It’s really THAT kind of secret life.

It begins, like most surprising adventures, with the completely mundane task of planning a trip. The hubs and I travel without our kids once a year and usually it’s an uneventful, albeit (mostly) relaxing, vacation to a warm destination. He plays pool volleyball with strangers, I read alone in the corner of the pool area, and then we eat a mediocre dinner together and end up watching TV in our room. We then argue about sex and eventually fall asleep around the same time other people are heading out to club. It’s basically like our regular life except in a warm climate and without children. It’s nice. But last week it was better than nice…it was fucking amazing.

Me as a secret agent. Except with bigger boobs.

Me as a secret agent. Except with bigger boobs.

We showed up at the adults only Mexican resort the hubs booked and had no clue what to expect minus the topless optional situation. We walked into a beautiful lobby, full of fully dressed models and I immediately decided that my top would stay on indefinitely. I have nursed kitten babies and my fat sacks weren’t that amazing before they had been suckled, so I’m already in the clan of saggy tatas. Moving on. We get to the room, change into our bathing suits, and meander to the pool area. Also known as ‘The Sexy Pool’. Now, you may wonder why we went to the sexy pool instead of the sport pool or the quiet pool and I will tell you…it wasn’t my idea. The quiet pool sounded like my jive. I had a book and I would travel…by myself, in the corner of the pool, for 5 days straight. But I married a social butterfly.

“Just one drink at the pool bar, then we check everything out, and you can go read.” the hubs coaxed. Just one drink, he says. Just one motherfucking drink on my way to debauchery.

How I planned to spend my vacation. That didn't happen.

How I planned to spend my vacation. That didn’t happen.

Once at the pool bar, the hubs is like a prepubescent boy with a permanent chub for the vast array of naked tatas. I too, am checking out the titty committees, but for different reasons. I need to know if my boobies are the worst of the bunch, land somewhere in the middle, or if I should just grab that bottle of vodka on the bartender’s shelf and drown myself in the sport pool. As I’m doing the comparison, I glance over to the hubs who is now looking at me like I have suddenly morphed into a melted wax statue of Betty White. And then my bikini top is gone.

“Sweetie, we don’t wear tops here.” I whipped around to find a woman holding my green bikini top between her teeth. I calmly took it from her (with my hand, cause I’m classy like that), set it on the bar, and said to the hubs “Well, I guess that takes care of that situation.” Then I sucked in my mommy gut and tried to sit back far enough to make my boobies hover at least 6 feet away from my knees. Basically I sat back like I was relaxing in a Lazy Boy recliner.  Not awkward or uncomfortable…AT ALL.

This is the part of the story where I wish I could tell you more, but I’ve been sworn to secrecy by the Mexican government. All I can say is that at one point during our 5 day vacation the hubs wanted to take pictures of me walking in from the ocean, the kind of sexy photos you might see in Maxim or Playboy. Unfortunately, I’m 3000 fantastic features away from being a model and when I looked at the photos all I saw was my cringy face and some baby monkeys swinging from my chest in a sad attempt to find armpit bananas.

Just imagine two of these little creatures swinging off my chest. Hot stuff, right?

Just imagine two of these little creatures swinging off my chest. Hot stuff, right?

“You look sexy.” the hubs told me later that day.

“I look like an 80-year-old prostitute fighting the waves for a meth fix.” But he wouldn’t hear of it. I like that about him.

That’s all you will ever know about this secret life trip. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be a secret and you would ask lots of weird questions like “Why did you think that was acceptable behavior?” or “Do you have any close up shots of you doing that one thing?”. No one needs that. My advice…live a secret life and go to an adults only place in Mexico and let your freak flag fly. FLY IT VERY HIGH. Then text me so we can exchange secret photos.

I’m Having An Intimate Relationship…With My Fit Bit

I’m not training for an Iron Man Competition or a marathon, hell I don’t even walk my dog (mostly because I have kids), but I am an upright mammal who has to walk to the mailbox so that’s physical activity and probably requires tracking. So I requested a Fit Bit for Mother’s Day and then forced my husband to give it to me early. If you aren’t in the know, the Fit Bit is a piece of plastic you wear around your wrist (or ankle, in my case) that tracks your steps, your sleep, your physical activity, and the amount of calories you burn. It can do more, but my Fit Bit and I are still in the ‘getting to know you’ phase of our relationship. Yes, I said relationship.

She's cute, right? We love these pants on us. #blessed

She’s cute, right? We love these pants on us. #blessed

I refuse to name inanimate objects like cars, but I don’t refuse to have awkward relationships with them. My Fit BIt just gets me. From the moment I put her around my ankle, I felt like she really cared about the progress of my life. “Your goal today is 10,000 steps.” And all I wanted to do was make her happy. I couldn’t wait to get my steps in and prove that I was a worthwhile person to love. That’s not weird, you’re weird.

While we were at work, she buzzed my ankle and I giggled a little because we had a secret that no one else knew…I had already hit my 10,000 steps. “Congratulations” she messaged me. Then later “You are a real overachiever!!” That one got me in the tear ducts. Me? An overachiever? She just always knows the right thing to say.

This morning she was asking how I had slept and when I clicked over to let her know, she had already created a graph of my sleeping patterns. Just like a true friend would. She was a little concerned that I had been a bit restless and had woken up once during the night, but I told her not to worry because I felt pretty good and just needed a cup of coffee. Then I said “What do you think we should wear to work today?”

That’s not weird.

I imagine this is how she watches me sleep. #notweird

I imagine this is how she watches me sleep. #notweird

Sometimes when we are just hanging out and having our morning coffee, I gaze down at her little lighted display face and I think “You really bring something special to my ankle…and my life.” It’s not a relationship built on pressure or expectation. She knows I can succeed and is there to cheer me on, but without all the “Do this, do that.” Upon returning home from work last night I had an even stranger thought than any of the previous ones I’ve mentioned, I thought “I wonder if she knows about my bad habits. Can she pick up on my nicotine consumption or blood alcohol level?” But that would be crazy, right? RIGHT?

We haven’t talked about food yet. She’s asked, but I’m not a great eater and I’m a bit embarrassed to admit how many cups of coffee I drink and peanut butter sandwiches I eat in a day. It’s not that I want to lie to her, that’s not a great way to start a relationship, but I’m tempted to tell her that I had a boiled egg and some yogurt this morning and that I’m packing a kale salad for lunch. That’s not lying if I am thinking about maybe doing it, right? What will really happen is that I will eat a peanut butter sandwich on the way to work, drink four more cups of coffee, and then choke down a lemon pound cake for lunch. I just don’t want to feel judged. By my Fit Bit. That’s not weird, you’re weird.

Wait..this is food? Solid pass.

Wait..this is food? Solid pass.

Next week we are going to take a bike ride together and I’m going to tell her about the bike race I signed up for and we might even go to a yoga class together. I’m trying to plan what yoga pants would look best next to her and what flip flops won’t cramp her style. I mean that’s what you do in a relationship, you think of your partner and  how to make them shine. It’s the least I can do if you she’s going to watch me sleep.

This is not weird, you’re weird.