Welcome to Marriage: Me and My body’s New Reality
Six-pack
Propped tits
Red lips
Tight butt
High heels
Restrained tongue
LBD
Two degrees
Sharp
Smooth legs
Successful
Happy
Close
Cute
Comprising
Sleep on a satin pillow with a smile and no scarf.
This is the woman I was two years ago. I transformed on May 19, 2012 when I married my soul mate. Gradually, I became a different woman. Let me introduce you to the new me:
Un-toned
No bra
Chapstick
Soft butt
High heels
Temperamental tongue
Pants
Two degrees
Unbalanced
Unshaved
In protest of “successful”
Tired
Distant
Unpolished
Stubborn
Awake with smudged mascara and a scarf by eight.
Okay, I’m a little comfortable. I used to talk about those women – the “comfortable” ones. They’d get married and let it all hang out, literally. Hips east and west, attitudes, no lipstick, and worst of all – granny drawers. I viewed them as pathetic on their way to minivans and mommy jeans never to return to the land of “sexy” or “attractive” again. Whose husband wants to look at a transformed (not for the better) version of their spouse everyday? I didn’t get it. Their disregard for their outer appearance was beyond my comprehension. And so was their husband’s unwavering desire for them.
Today, I get it. They didn’t have time to spend hours on their outer beauty. They were busy – a state of being that I thought I understood. I soon found out that neither did I. Here’s why…
I’m exhausted. Too tired to be cute after work or on the weekend. My appearance is insignificant anyway, right? I got him. Wait. He got me. Yea. I’m the Queen. He came up. Shoot, I was out of his league. Plus I have a beautiful mind, a strong spirit, passion beyond belief and sex that puts him to sleep. Why do I need to look good? I did that for 26 years of my life.
Now?
I’m overworked. Too weak to wear heels in the kitchen after a 10-hour day in the office. He can save that vision for his dreams. (I hope they’re about me.) By the way, I used all the verbal restraint I had at the office, so I have none left for him. If he says a word other than “Thank You” when I put down this plate of sweet potato soufflé, I may lose it. For real this time. And yes – it is personal. My six-pack is gone because between special midnight requests, southern-style green beans, one television show a week, pursuing my passion, scrubbing the tub and detangling 13 inches of kinks – 300 crunches will have to wait until next year, or next century.
This is my attitude. Probably not the best, but it’s my reality. Welcome to marriage. Being a woman is hard, but being a wife is harder. The balancing act of keeping my home, working a full-time job, living for God, mentoring young women, writing at night, maintaining other relationships, and loving my husband the way he needs to be loved has me a bit unrefined when it comes to how I look at home.
I’m comfortable. I want to be. He lets me.
But here’s the thing: I’m not proud of it.
I want to be recognizable in 10 or 20 years. I want my propped tits, red lips and shaved legs in pumps waiting for him when he gets home. So although I’m exhausted and drained of sexual energy, I’m resolving to make him melt when he sees me. I’m going to catch his eye with surprise like I use to, and then get carried away to our bedroom. I will be the vision of his dreams. He deserves to see the irresistible Queen he married, if only once a week.
This year, he’s going to love to look at me, not just love me.
You’ll see.
Six-pack
Propped tits
Red lips
Tight butt
High heels
Restrained tongue
LBD
Two degrees
Sharp
Smooth legs
Successful
Happy
Close
Cute
Comprising
Sleep on a satin pillow with a smile and no scarf.
 |
| Welcome to Marriage: Me and My body’s New Reality |
Un-toned
No bra
Chapstick
Soft butt
High heels
Temperamental tongue
Pants
Two degrees
Unbalanced
Unshaved
In protest of “successful”
Tired
Distant
Unpolished
Stubborn
Awake with smudged mascara and a scarf by eight.
Okay, I’m a little comfortable. I used to talk about those women – the “comfortable” ones. They’d get married and let it all hang out, literally. Hips east and west, attitudes, no lipstick, and worst of all – granny drawers. I viewed them as pathetic on their way to minivans and mommy jeans never to return to the land of “sexy” or “attractive” again. Whose husband wants to look at a transformed (not for the better) version of their spouse everyday? I didn’t get it. Their disregard for their outer appearance was beyond my comprehension. And so was their husband’s unwavering desire for them.
Today, I get it. They didn’t have time to spend hours on their outer beauty. They were busy – a state of being that I thought I understood. I soon found out that neither did I. Here’s why…
I’m exhausted. Too tired to be cute after work or on the weekend. My appearance is insignificant anyway, right? I got him. Wait. He got me. Yea. I’m the Queen. He came up. Shoot, I was out of his league. Plus I have a beautiful mind, a strong spirit, passion beyond belief and sex that puts him to sleep. Why do I need to look good? I did that for 26 years of my life.
Now?
I’m overworked. Too weak to wear heels in the kitchen after a 10-hour day in the office. He can save that vision for his dreams. (I hope they’re about me.) By the way, I used all the verbal restraint I had at the office, so I have none left for him. If he says a word other than “Thank You” when I put down this plate of sweet potato soufflé, I may lose it. For real this time. And yes – it is personal. My six-pack is gone because between special midnight requests, southern-style green beans, one television show a week, pursuing my passion, scrubbing the tub and detangling 13 inches of kinks – 300 crunches will have to wait until next year, or next century.
This is my attitude. Probably not the best, but it’s my reality. Welcome to marriage. Being a woman is hard, but being a wife is harder. The balancing act of keeping my home, working a full-time job, living for God, mentoring young women, writing at night, maintaining other relationships, and loving my husband the way he needs to be loved has me a bit unrefined when it comes to how I look at home.
I’m comfortable. I want to be. He lets me.
But here’s the thing: I’m not proud of it.
I want to be recognizable in 10 or 20 years. I want my propped tits, red lips and shaved legs in pumps waiting for him when he gets home. So although I’m exhausted and drained of sexual energy, I’m resolving to make him melt when he sees me. I’m going to catch his eye with surprise like I use to, and then get carried away to our bedroom. I will be the vision of his dreams. He deserves to see the irresistible Queen he married, if only once a week.
This year, he’s going to love to look at me, not just love me.
You’ll see.
