Sharing Your Fantasies On A Middle-Aged Weekend Getaway

She luxuriated in the fresh white cotton bedlinen of their four-poster bed as she looked up at him.  He lay over her, on his haunches, a quizzical look on his face, the muscles of his arms twitching. He was still beguilingly ripped for a middle-aged man.

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She shivered as she watched him devour her body with his eyes, lifting his face back up to hers before they reached her belly. She couldn’t believe how big he looked above her, or how small she felt beneath him as the morning light bathed the room around them, highlighting the perfect angle of his beer belly.

‘Tell me what you want?’ he murmured into her ear again, before gazing back down at her body admiringly. Was that hunger in his eyes?

She turned her head to one side, feeling shy all of a sudden. As she felt her hot red cheek cool on the sheets beneath her, she thought about how to tell him.

‘Come on,’ he begged, tracing a finger from her chins down to her cleavage. ‘Tell me. I told you, this weekend is about you.’

‘I can’t,’ she admitted, coyly, still averting her eyes.  ‘It’s embarrassing.’ She bit her lip, forgetting for one moment how much that excited him. Could she really be that honest?

‘I want what you want…’ he persevered, stroking her hair with his builder’s hands.

‘Really?’ she giggled nervously, still unable to look up at him, the image in her head so naughty somehow, and yet too delicious not to share. It had been so long… and wasn’t that why they were here, she justified.

‘Of course. I’ve told you,’ he said, patiently. Whatever makes you happy makes me happy,’ he repeated, lowering his eyes to her breasts… and then lower. ‘Tell me what your fantasy is. Tell me what is going through your mind right now,’ he pushed her, licking his lips.

‘Okay, but you have to promise me not to be disappointed.’

‘How could I ever be disappointed in you, silly?’ he asked as she felt the heat of his desire push against her thigh and saw his eyes melt to liquid chocolate. She knew she had to be brave.

‘Bacon,’ she said, closing her eyes.

‘Bacon,’ he repeated slowly with a sigh, closing his eyes, his breathing suddenly heavier. Lowering his body closer to hers, she could smell last night’s three pints and Jalfrezi on his breath as he asked in a sultry voice – ‘Streaky or back?’ 

‘Back,’ she giggled, aware of the sudden warmth between her legs as she said the word. Had she really said it out loud? She began to stroke the insides of his arms as he flexed them above her.

‘What else?’ he asked, a discernible quiver in his voice, his body beginning to move rhythmically against hers.

‘Mushrooms,’ she said, losing focus on his arms as an image of the fungi exploded into her brain.

‘Grilled?’

‘Fried,’ she answered in a guttural voice, her eye now firmly on the prize. ‘In butter. Yes! In butter,’ she gushed, raising her body to meet his, ‘with perhaps a pinch of Tarragon.’ 

‘Sausages?’ he suggested hoarsely, his hot breath on her face as his body searched hers, more roughly now, but touching her exactly where she needed him.

‘Yes, sausages!’ she repeated confidently before she shrank back into the pillow, her hand over her mouth. ‘Cumberland,’ she added, in a quieter voice. ‘Thick, moist… and floating in brown sauce.’ She enunciated the word moist slowly, secretly delighting in the look of pain that shot across his face. 

‘Now?’ he panted, unable to disguise the hope in his voice.

‘Not yet,’ she said, close.

‘What else?’ he asked, his voice strained as she heard him breathe in her skin.’

‘Those crispy potato things,’ she said, her voice rising with the increase in her heart rate, her brain unable to think clearly anymore. ‘What are they called?’ she asked him, her back arching, her body reaching for him impatiently. ‘WHAT ARE THEY CALLED?’ she screamed, soaring.

‘Hashbrowns?’

‘YES!  HASH. FUCKING. BROWNS! YES! YES! YES!

‘And eggs? Surely we need eggs?’ he shouted, panic in his voice as he looked down at her face for reassurance.

‘Fried!’ they shouted jubilantly, jumping out of bed to head down to breakfast.

 

 

 

 

My Husband Seems To Have Forgotten This Year That Valentine’s Day Is A Competition

I choose not to remind the old man about special events during the year, such as our anniversary, my birthday and Valentine’s Day because it makes our relationship so much more interesting.

I know that many people frown upon the commerciality of Valentine’s Day, but personally, I have always lapped up the opportunity to receive the only bunch of dead flowers from the petrol station I’m likely to receive in any given year as well as a meal out – nothing too expensive, mind you, because as a friend reminded me today, then they think they deserve sex.

In the old days, the old man used to cook for me on Valentine’s night, a mistake that I soon realized wasn’t romantic at all when I had to stand over him the whole time and interpret the methodology into a language he understood, then had to clear up his mess afterwards.

In our forties, when we thought we were rich, (before being rudely reminded about the cost of care homes and healthcare), we progressed to dinner out – generally not on the night itself due to the sacrilege of increased pricing that the old man couldn’t quite stomach – but the sickening sight of young couples, and particularly men, squirming in their seats, praying not to fuck the night up, (albeit highly entertaining), wasn’t how we wanted to celebrate our own special love.

So our current Valentine status is that we pretend we just don’t care are pretty chilled about the whole thing, even though, deep down we both know that there is still a competition going on. Generally, there is a reluctant exchange of cards with a few lovey-dovey words that convey that although we hate each other most of the time, VERY, VERY deep down, there is obviously something deep and meaningful there. And perhaps we’ll treat ourselves to a pizza.

This year, however, I had been somewhat out of sorts after a virus knocked me sideways, increased my intolerance to wine and gave me a cold sore as its finale. Added to which, he-that-rhymes-with-Burt has been stretching every last ounce of my patience since Xmas as he continues to deny my rights to retire from parenting. So, I have been lethargic, bad-tempered and meaner this past week than normal. Everything is the old man’s fault, including the length and debilitation caused by my illness, because he made me play tennis when I was literally still on my death bed.

I am of the belief that if you try hard enough, it is possible to blame your husband/partner for just about everything.

So I was not feeling particularly amorous when I spotted the first red cards in the shops, and perhaps it had nothing to do with the virus at all, and the reason Cupid has been on an extended holiday from our house is because we work from home together, hence get on each other’s nerves 24/7. Anyway, call me bitchy, but I knew that the old man would have no idea what month we were in without a reminder as salient as billboards in our street when I decided to surprise him with my card.

You get where I’m coming from, Ladies?

Unfortunately, however, last week was one of the rare occasions that the old man left the house over the past year and he too spotted the red balloons and the heart-shaped stickers and didn’t wonder whose birthday it was. Something resonated, and because he has no respect for my privacy and is the type that raids my in-tray and text messages regularly – he says, to check which bills I’ve forgotten to pay and what library books I’ve forgotten to return; I say, to see if I have a lover, because deep down I like the idea that he thinks that I could get a lover – he found my Valentine’s card to him and hotfooted it down to the petrol station to buy one for me that was no-way near as offensive as mine – in fact it was downright romantic – and so this year, I suppose, he wins in the game of love.

But where exactly are my dead flowers, ass-hole?

Maudie, Self-Care and The Simplicity of Love

One pearl of wisdom you finally discover in middle age is the answer to that all-consuming question of “what the fuck is it all about?”.  And that it is “love”, of course.

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And trust me, you couldn’t find a better demonstration of that than the movie I saw yesterday when Louisa-No-Mates dragged herself along to the movies by herself for some TLS, or tender, loving self-care.

 

The rediscovery of simple things you enjoyed doing in the past is a little tip I picked up in the most recent self-help book I have read on self-love, and as it had been a while since I was brave enough to admit publicly that I have no friends, left the house or got dressed, I decided a trip to the movies would be a good starting point.

 

I rarely to the movies these days, probably due to my warped penchant for sad movies -something that is not shared by anyone else in the family… or anyone really. NC, the logician of the family, can’t bear to watch any movie that attempts to locate her heart strings, doesn’t have dragons, robots or star troopers, while Kurt and the old man – stereotypes for emotionally under-developed males – barely stray from violence or superhero nonsense.

 

Conversely, I like to give my mind and heart a full workout during a movie, and I am drawn to those thought-provoking little gems that usually have fuck-all budget. I like to see characters bare their souls and evolve in stories of personal triumph over tragedy. 

 

Maudie, the movie I saw yesterday, is based on the true story of Canadian artist, Maude Lewis, and her husband Everett. It is set in Nova Scotia, on the edge of a small town that has the appeal and climate extremes of all seven kingdoms of the Game of Thrones combined, and is the story of Maude, a woman physically disabled by arthritis and rejected by her family, who is left no other choice than to work as a housemaid for Everett, who is, in the words of Bridget Jones’ mother, ‘a very cruel man.’

 

In truth, the meat of this story is not the amazing tale of  Maude’s rise to fame to become a successful folk painter, but rather the simple and unlikely romance that develops between her and Everett, a man also starved of love as a child, and the way in which she successfully unlocks his unyielding heart.

 

‘The world didn’t give this woman much, but then, not much was required to make her happy.’ (Bob Mondello)

 

For while her painting fulfills her need for creative expression, Maude’s main goal in life is to be loved and to achieve happiness. Her poor start has made her more determined to find someone to love her, and although Everett is hardly Romeo material, (nor very much of a talker), when he demonstrates his developing love for her through small acts of kindness – albeit without grace – these are enough to give Maude the hope she needs to stay with him. 

 

‘I have been loved,’ Maude tells him when the light globe of Everett’s emotional intelligence finally switches on and he comprehends what she truly means to him.

 

‘It’s a story of pain and difficulty and cold, and also of happiness.’ (Glenn Kenny)

 

It is a story about the fabric of life and love.

 

 

Valentines Night With The FailArmy

One of Kurt’s greatest pleasures in life, apart from winding me up, is watching FailArmy videos on YouTube.

 

 

These are videos of those idiots (usually men) that derive pleasure from doing wacky, dangerous stunts, the insanity of which more (often than not), land them in sticky situations, if not hospital. Typical stunts might include jumping out of a window into A swimming pool – even funnier when the pool’s empty (Not!) – risky skateboard tricks that you just know are going to go horribly wrong, and innocent family outings that usually end up in the drink.

 

I’m sure you get the picture, and being a typically boring, middle-aged parent, they’re not exactly my idea of entertainment, but watching them with Kurt provides some rare and precious bonding moments with my son.

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Our very stylish picnic hamper!

 

Anyway… I digress. What made me think about Kurt’s obsession with FailArmy, is mine and the old man’s attempt last night at a Valentine’s picnic.

 

You see, I thought I was being the epitome of perfect wifey when we discussed our plans for Valentine’s Day, and when he came up with nothing I suggested a picnic. An old spark of …something I haven’t seen in a while… lit up the old man’s eyes for a brief moment when he realized that the picnic could be the cheapest celebration we’ve had so far on this commercial day from hell that rivals Halloween, so much so that he went all out and splashed on a bunch of semi-alive flowers from the local deli to celebrate, that almost rivalled my sad box of Celebrations which he complained had too many Bountys for his liking in it.

 

Sadly, however, the art of romance seems to elude us, when at the end of what was a hot, stinky day in Sydney, having mistakenly assumed that the temperature would cool down to the perfect balmy evening for romance, the wind suddenly changed direction and conviction and decided to blow a force 8 cyclone directly onto our square metre of grass.

 

IMG_1011It wasn’t cold exactly, but it was very breezy, which meant that we had to hold our plastic wine glasses tightly in our hands all the time –making eating and PDAs very difficult – or the glasses fell over, risking the serious threat of wine wastage. Then, every time I unwrapped a new food delicacy the wrapping from it would fly away and glue itself to the faces of the people at the picnic next to us before I had the chance to catch it. But even more disastrous, that fucking wind ruined my hair, congealed as it was for most of the evening with the food in my mouth.

 

If I’m honest, the plan was all a little too spontaneous for us and served to demonstrate once again our complete lack of preparation and style when it comes to romance. We don’t own a picnic hamper such as the ones you see beautiful people lolling over on The Bachelor or that the astronaut produced for NC, full of exotic delicacies that you pay a fortune for at David Jones, but that no-one actually eats. No, our picnic was hastily bought en route from the deli and served out of a plastic bag as we sat shivering on damp-from-our-earlier-swim towels because the old man threw the picnic rug away during his last clear out.

 

I fear picnics will go the way of camping, festivals and outdoor gigs in our future – another of those things we did when young love blinded us and we were green enough and stupid enough not to care about the uncomfortable reality of being outdoors.

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Back to the safety of the balcony where luckily we had the Princess to help us out with any leftover delicacies.

 

When a Labradoodle puppy bounded over to us, squatted and crapped in front of us, we decided to call it a day and relocated to the safety of our apartment balcony to be joined by Kurt, who has about as much romantic sensitivity as Kanye West and Ben Affleck put together and who remained oblivious to his new status of third wheel.

 

However, when he then informed us of his recent decision to change his name by deed poll to Rudyard Finch Simmonds – a moment even the finest video from Fail Army couldn’t match in terms of hilarity – it confirmed to us that our son is either going to be famous, end up in a looney bin or prison and that the entertainment factor of Valentines Day is as we suspected, seriously overrated.

 

 

Romance Comes In Different Forms

English: Romance icon
English: Romance icon (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It was our wedding anniversary on Friday and inevitably, after twenty-plus long years together, the standard of the old man’s gifts and romantic gestures have diminished with time.

In the first few years of our marriage, I might be treated to dinner, flowers AND a card, perhaps even a meal cooked by him; these days it’s a card if I’m lucky.

Fortunately, I’m not a sentimentalist and I didn’t marry the old man for his romantic gestures. And to be honest, I’d grown a tad tired of the sad-looking, funereal bunches of white lilies that I told him I liked, ONCE, circa 1990, and which he has bought me ever since.

So this year I decided to fess up.

Roses are Red
Roses are Red (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Because, as the healthy glow of my once youthful skin fades to a dull middle-aged pallor, I find that I like more color in my life these days,  so for the past year or so, brightly-colored roses have held far more appeal. They also happen to accessorize very pleasingly with the more funky design scheme in our apartment which I based around a piece of Aboriginal art I found on Ebay, and which kills my OCD a little bit more each day because the people who stretched and strung the canvas, did it the wrong way.

That fucking artwork taunts me on a daily basis.

Which is why, rather than be disappointed by last week’s withered lilies from the local petrol station, I decided to take control, buy my own bouquet and then get the old man to come up with the dosh.

Perhaps that sounds as though I’ve given up or given in, but considering I don’t buy anything for him in return for our anniversary and I preach ‘equality’ to the kids, I don’t have a problem with it. It seemed like the obvious solution. Romance comes in different forms and the old man’s talent in that department does not lie in gifting.

When I went to the florist to pick my flowers and explained the situation to her, it was quite obvious that she was appalled. She asked me if the old man had ever been romantic and it only took me a few seconds to respond with an unequivocal ‘no’. ‘Oh’, she responded with appropriate sad face, unable to disguise the traces of pity in her voice – at which point I hoped that she might throw in the extra greenery I’d requested without charging the exorbitant $5 for what was effectively a couple of manky old leaves.

‘But it’s not all bad,’ I responded, rearing in defence of my soul-mate of twenty-two years. ‘He still makes me laugh, and he’s a great cuddler.’

‘Then you’re got yourself a good man,’ she said, wisely, and I realized she was right and skipped out of the shop, hugging my new, favourite flowers and for a few precious seconds I might even have walked on air.

Middle Aged Mini Breaks, Romance and Getting The Mojo Back In Your Marriage

Middle Aged Mini Breaks, Romance and Getting The Mojo Back In Your Marriage

 

The old man and I braved a mini break last weekend.

 

All long relationships need a little bit of TLC occasionally.

Middle Aged Mini Breaks, Romance and Getting The Mojo Back In Your Marriage
Hardy’s Bay Wharf – It doesn’t get much more idyllic.

Somehow we managed to trick some good friends into the offer of a weekend at The Block in exchange for the protection of our apartment from Kurt’s impulsive party-planning antics and crazed friends.

 

As my son would say, “Sucked In!”

 

The old man was already ensconced on the Central Coast, pretending to be a very important and busy executive at some conference (he probably made up), so I joined him there on Friday night.

 

My experience of the Central Coast has been limited so far to a disastrous maiden camping trip to Woy Woy, where we fell foul of a freak storm on our first night and only realized when it was time for bed that we’d forgotten to close our tent flaps. I was woken in the morning by the old man letting the air out of my blow-up bed with a ‘let’s get the fuck out of here!’

 

The second occasion was when Ken, our old GPS (since retired), decided that he knew a shortcut to get us back to the Northern Beaches from the North Coast, foolishly believing that we could engage a Bond-esque swimming mode to our Honda CRV, and like God, cross water.

 

I found a cheap reasonably-priced B and B on Wotif.com, close to Avoca Beach, but what we actually discovered when we arrived was a mini Nirvana.

Middle Aged Mini Breaks, Romance and Getting The Mojo Back In Your Marriage

It might have been the lack of Kurt jackhammering through my eardrums, not having to cook and clean or simply being able to fully relax for the first time in a long time, but once deeply entrenched in our beautiful French-styled suite at the Avoca Valley B and B, I tasted heaven.

 

The old man had uncharacteristically planned some super-expensive dinner at a local hotel for Saturday night, so I found a Turkish restaurant that was recommended in Ettalong for our meal out on the Friday. Gone are the greasy Doner kebabs of old, the contemporary Turkish cuisine on offer at Saffron still served up a wealth of my old faithful and comforting dips such as Tszatsiki, Baba Ganoush (the name of my next Spoodle) and hummus, accompanied by lashings of bread. First course was followed by tapas-sized mains that included whiting lightly fried in herbs, Halloumi in vine leaves and Kofta, which satisfied the old man’s need for meat.

 

We were back at the B and B by 8.30pm, fully conscious of our middle-aged need to be in bed by 9.30pm to awaken fresh the next morning to get our money’s worth fully enjoy the inclusive buffet breakfast start of our weekend adventure.

 

And it turns out that Kilcare and Hardy’s Bay are jaw-smackingly beautiful places and right on Sydney’s doorstep.

Middle Aged Mini Breaks, Romance and Getting The Mojo Back In Your Marriage
Tsunami surf!

Kilcare Beach was empty due to tsunami-high surf conditions, although there were still some fearless locals at the north end of the beach who decided to brave the tempestuous seas, while us old wrinklies enjoyed a wonderful couple of sedentary hours under the safety of our umbrella with only the Kindle and Ipod for distraction.

 

I missed the “are you coming for a swim now?” and “can we go now?” nags from my children. Not a bit.

 

By lunchtime, our bodies had somehow managed to digest the gargantuan full breakfast that was supposed to stave off hunger for the next week and we meandered back down to one of Hardy’s Bay’s cute little cafes for a feast of King Prawns.

 

And then we might have had a nap…

 

The spirituality and natural beauty of our surroundings obviously got to us because at some point that afternoon we were feeling so relaxed and Bohemian that we decided to forgo the 5 star luxury of dinner at the local snooty hotel and dine off-piste. So, after a very public domestic of WW3 proportions in the local deli about which cheese to buy, (because the old man refused to pay the extra $4 for organic), we bought a block of cheap Brie, some dodgy-looking pate, salmon and fruit and decided to give the whole rediscovery of romance a go on the privacy of our beautiful balcony.

Middle Aged Mini Breaks, Romance and Getting The Mojo Back In Your Marriage
It doesn’t look that inspiring but it was perfect. Honest!

The candles were lit, the stars were out, the wine was chilled and even the cicadas were baying for us. The local Lemon and Myrtle digestif slipped down easily, as did my trusty bottle of Scarborough wine, secreted up from the city.

 

The scene was set.

 

Our eyes met across the smouldering candles on the table and we smiled at each other, coyly, like we were seeing each other for the first time again…

Middle Aged Mini Breaks, Romance and Getting The Mojo Back In Your Marriage
I’m just a magnet for new friends. “Get back and make my breakfast!”

And then we yawned.

 

None of it was enough to stave off the tiredness of a full day on the beach. Proud that we had made it to 9.30pm, we crashed in front of a trashy movie and happily called it a night.

 

Whoever said middle-aged romance is dead is a liar.

The Bachelor

Call me a sad, vacuous, half-wit but I’m glued to The Bachelor on Wednesday and Thursday nights.

The Bachelor
Photo courtesy of Russell Jenkins at http://www.flickr.com

 

But only for research purposes – OBVIOUSLY – for my thesis on women and modern-day dating practices.

 

I was a ‘Bachelor’ virgin before this series. I’d heard about the hype, of course, but being the staunch feminist that I am, I was appalled that women existed who would subjugate themselves to such a demeaning social experiment on television, and so I denied myself.

 

Then I remembered how much I used to enjoy Big Brother, and it also became harder to ignore the tweets that continually bombarded my twitter feed whenever #TheBachelor aired, and I kind of missed not being part of something which creates so much controversy.

 

So I lost my Bachelor V plates this series.

 

And I DO know that the bachelorettes have CHOSEN to do this show and feminism is about women having choices, but the premise of the show still sits uncomfortably with me, no matter how many times Blake gratuitously takes his shirt off.

 

But in spite of my feminist conscience I still watch it.

 

It might have something to do with this season’s Bachelor, Blake Garvey, who is undisputedly both the thinking and drinking woman’s crumpet. So far he seems perfect. Not only is he tall, dark, handsome and successful, he’s super hot even by my middle-aged standards, (and far from afraid to whip out his guns at every perfect camera angle), worships his mum and family and his biological clock must be ticking loudly because he’s told us on more than one occasion that he wants babies as soon as he finds his princess.

 

And HE WANTS MY BABIES!…I mean, he wants babies.

 

So obviously, he can’t possibly be ‘real’ – but who cares? That’s what entertainment is all about – being able to suspend belief and pretend for a few hours each week that such men might possible exist in another universe. Even I ovulate when he talks about wanting to procreate, and my ovaries were well past their use-by date years ago.

 

And visually the series is a real treat after a hard day at the office and having to stare at the man you’ve been married to for over twenty years. It’s set in some of Sydney’s most beautiful properties and landmarks and if romance is your thing, the producers must have hired the ghost of Walt Disney himself to invent the romantic dates. We’ve had ice-skating in a winter wonderland, extreme sports that test even action man Blake (who seems on occasion as vulnerable as the ladies, which makes us love him even more), buckets of Champagne and oodles of tear-jerking sentimentality.

 

Did I mention how much Blake wants babies?

Sleeping baby
Sleeping baby (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

But this is a reality show and no reality show is successful without a huge dollop of dirt, some serious sordidness and social antagonism to feed its viewers.

 

It’s those uncomfortable parts of the show we all love to hate (that make us cringe awkwardly on the sofa and force us to make polite exits to the kitchen to make excessive cups of tea) – yet secretly love. It’s several weeks into this series and the masks on Blake’s potential harem are beginning to crack – even Mr Perfect has expressed the odd perplexed look on occasion. We’re down to the final ten women now (roughly), although you don’t need a degree in psychology to pick the final line-up of lucky ladies from the start – it’s the mean girls from high school who do most of the bitchy thoughtful commentary about Blake and the other competitors, and without stereotyping, they’re the bigger personalities who no one would dare get into a cat fight with.

 

The humor is subtle in The Bachelor. It emanates from the frozen, bunny-boiler looks of the contestants, the ‘why did she wear that?’ moments and the looks of innate fear that sometimes pass over Blake’s face when his guard of perfection comes down and he inadvertently shows us some personality (or forgets that he’s on telly).

 

The programme is cleverly edited to mislead the public and to cultivate the suspense. Women who should have been ousted in week one, are ominously still there as catalysts and occasionally Blake makes a highly suspect decision at the rose ceremony, (that has obviously come directly from the director), when it comes to which women to save with his roses.

 

The obvious question is: why he is there at all and why are the bevy of beautiful women he is dating there too? If they can’t attract a partner, who the fuck can?

 

But who the fuck cares what their reasons are. This is entertainment, folks!

 

And this gorgeous man does want babies, which makes those of us with weeping ovaries ignore the rights and wrongs of the philosophy of the show.

 

I lie awake at night and worry about whether the women have considered the risk of cold sores. And even though Blake is obviously the perfect man, bigamist Blake doesn’t seem to think there’s anything wrong in playing the field to find his perfect woman, even though the Blake Harem cackles and plans his death, Games of Thrones style around the Champagne cauldron, as soon as the series ends.

 

I’m glad I don’t have to date anymore. It looks truly terrifying. Extreme sports aside, imagine having to wear false eyelashes, smile ALL the time and watch what you eat.

Middle Aged Love On Valentines Day

A stencil painted on Valentines day depicting ...
A stencil painted on Valentines day depicting “First love” (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Obviously, I didn’t mean to call him a ‘tosser’ by 8am on Valentines Day, but he knows I’m not good in the morning and frankly, he was being one.

The greatest thing about being middle-aged and married for what can sometimes feel like a life sentence, is that you don’t have to tip toe around each other anymore.

The kids have been nagging us for weeks about how we planned to celebrate Valentines Day. It was getting annoying actually – like we had to validate this commercial twaddle in some way, just so our babies didn’t get over-anxious about the status of our marriage.

At one point, I felt like changing my Facebook Status to ‘comfortably married’.

Neither of us are feeling particularly romantic at the moment. Not because we’re not in lurvvve and shit, we just have more important priorities. Wasting precious free time in search of a restaurant that hasn’t been booked up on the 14th for the last three months and doesn’t resort to tacky metallic red heart-shaped balloons and inflated prices, isn’t exactly high on our list.

Now some might determine our lack of effort as ‘dangerous’ to our relationship, but I’m far more excited about booking our annual holiday than sitting with a group of over–anxious, loved-up couples who feel the need to celebrate their love publicly.

I can imagine the torrent of sentimental slime that will fill my home page on Facebook today already.

CALL ME CYNICAL, but I don’t need a heart-shaped card or an expensive bunch of roses to a) know how the old man feels about me or b) to cement in my mind just how hopelessly unromantic he is.

There was a time when I cared, admittedly, but I think the dead Chrysanthemums from the local petrol station put an end to all that futile romantic expectation.

Anyway, the kind of love depicted by Valentine’s Day is not really how we feel about each other now. THAT love is the heart-flutter, pants-on-fire kind that is driven by desire, whereas ours has evolved into something a little different. Ours is mutual hatred a more mature love where our pants may not catch fire (probably because they’re a bit tight around the waist now) and we get more turned on by alcohol or an early night than lust. But our love is also more contained now – fewer fireworks and spontaneity, but much more depth.

Yes, we probably do take each other for granted.

But it’s nice not to be afraid in a relationship. I realised that when we were out in our local hangover-café last Sunday morning after the Pavlova night. Once we’d ordered our coffees and carbs, we sat at our table and stared blankly into the distance, silently trying to work our headaches into submission, while the younger couples all around us chatted animatedly.

I remember commenting to the old man in our twenties about how awful it was when middle-aged couples sat in cafés saying absolutely nothing to each other. And how we’d never become like that. 

Old Couple
Old Couple (Photo credit: Jan Tik)

We are now THAT couple.

And it’s comfortable at times, to be honest; not having to make an effort all the time.

I don’t even tut when he farts in bed these days.

Are you dangerously comfortable in your relationship?

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