We’re not talking right now, and I’m afraid it went from bad to worse. The last time our marriage felt this bad, I started this blog. I can’t start another one. We didn’t have sex yesterday either.. the number of sexless days is shamelessly growing. We’re up to 8 now.
I cried my eyes swollen last night, a feat I’ve never accomplished before. Today I’m using ice bags in an attempt to bring them back down to normal.
Yesterday was the parade we ride in every year with our family. Although we already had the float, we hadn’t yet decorated it and still needed to get more beads. Our costumes needed to be decided and purchased too. For a family, this generally takes weeks, months even. It was shaping up to be a shitty last minute effort, and I wasn’t interested in propping up the mediocrity all by myself.
I’m all alone, again.
The first thing my husband said to me since the horrible experience at the parade the day before was “So, what’s the deal with the parade tonight? What time do we need to be there?”
He didn’t ask if he needed to buy some more beads or what he could do to get the float decorating started. Nope, just a what time should I show up question. Typical. As little effort as possible.
“I don’t know that we’re even going to be in it,” I said flatly and walked off feeling instantly free from the stress of it all. I really didn’t care anymore. That’s a lie, I felt bad for the kids who really enjoyed being in the parade.
My husband left and went where ever he goes when he doesn’t want to be around me, presumably his man cave.
Luckily a few friends popped over and wanted to help get our family float figured out. My friends were enthusiastic and excited to about the upcoming parade. Their giddiness was the only reason I had any Mardi Gras spirit left in me, and they are the reason I asked my husband around noon if he had any old nets and fishing poles we could use for decor. “Under the Sea” was the parade theme this year and so fishing seemed like an easy fit for our float considering my husband’s intense hobby.
“Yes,” he typed into his text message, but he didn’t answer my phone call for added information.
All day I had to reel in my usual desires to be prepared and let my husband’s it’s not that important attitude prevail. It’s funny, he doesn’t have that attitude when something is important to him. When he’s planning a fishing day, for instance, he’s out the night before prepping the boat, getting ice, packing bait, checking forecasts, and setting his departure time in accordance to tidal positions and water temperature. It’s an exact science, one he takes very seriously. Some people would say any great party or parade needs that level of thoughtfulness too. He wouldn’t agree.
I’ve always known my husband isn’t much of a social butterfly. This year I’m finally getting it through my thick skull that he’s not much of party guy. For me, I guess you could say, he gathered some old fishing supplies and met me at the house by 2. We had two hours to dress ourselves, gather all of our loot and get ready to roll.
The mood did seem lighter when he showed up, like I had some version of a half ass partner in this annual Mardi Gras venture. He helped me dress and winked at me through the mirror warning me about giving him my “fuck me eyes.”
“You wish,” I teased back.
To my surprise, the parade was actually a great time for all of us. Of course our float looked dumb and sparse compared to the others, and our costumes left a lot to be desired, but the experience was enjoyable still. Thousands of people screaming at you to throw them something is quite an adrenaline rush. “Stella, hey Stella, the crowd cried.” I danced and drank and happily tossed beads into the cool March evening. If ever I had a type, it would be the Mardi Gras type.
I hadn’t realized how drunk I was until I found myself dancing in the yard to my music even after we’d made it back to the house. Then I ran across the street to my best friend’s house to say hello.
“Stella are you okay?” My friend’s husband asked. “I saw that you fell out of the float.”
My friend jumped in, “No, she did not. There is no way Stella fell out.”
“Oh, yeah, I did, didn’t I?” I laughed feeling embarrassed. Had I really had that much to drink? How many people saw? “It wasn’t bad. A guy caught me, so I’m fine.”
Back at the house, I began to disassemble my costume, one bobby bin at a time perfectly oblivious to the man in the doorway watching me.
“Ah!” I yelled when my eyes met his.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” my husband said looking sweetly at me, “I’ve been here for at least five minutes.” His voice was low and calming.
I don’t remember what happened and how. I just know that our conversation landed us on the bed and with me in tears talking crazy about this one time with my ex-husband in Miami and compared it to the way my current husband treated me at the royalty toast before the parade. Apparently I was still harboring lots of intense emotions.
“You wouldn’t stand next to me,” I cried. “You always run from me in public. During the toast, you and kids stood 20 feet from me.”
“No, you’re the one who runs up to where all of the cameras are, like you just have to be in the middle of everything.” He was angry again.
“I wasn’t trying to be in front of the cameras.” Anger boiled up hotter than it had been the day before. Now he’s acting like I’m the weirdo because I am enthusiastic and love to have fun. “I was supporting the queen. She’s one of my good friends. Besides, I’m a front of the class kinda person. You’re the guy who lurks in the shadows like you have something to hide. You were the back of the class kid.”
That’s it, folks. It took us nearly 7 years to get to this point of truth with each other and ourselves. He made me feel bad for being myself, like I’m a bit too much, even went on to say I should be thanking him for standing with the kids while I pranced up to the toasting area… an area our entire family was invited to stand.
I know this sounds so mixed up and childish like we’re fighting over a box of crackers. But please understand that in my drunken stoop yesterday, this all meant something more than I can even begin to recreate now that I’m sober.
I literally cried for hours last night when my husband retreated to the man cave and didn’t come back out until bedtime. I remember running a hot bath and sitting in there wiping huge alligator tears from my cheeks, trying to catch them before they plopped into the water. Usually I talk to myself to make sense of my emotions, but the sadness was so thick, it rendered me speechless. I sat there feeling numb and angry and fooled all at once… a silly, stupid fool in love with a ghost, a stranger, a man who ever did nor ever could truly love me.
Wait.
Isn’t that what I said about my ex husband in the book I wrote about our breakup? In fact, I used those exact words. I called myself a fool and him a stranger. Is that how we all feel on the battlefield of love at one point or another when Mr. or Mrs. Perfect becomes Mr. or Mrs. Clueless.
That’s what all of this Mardi Gras fighting is doing to me. It’s symbolic of the fun I want to have in life and the seriousness in which I treat it. Being a fabulous star requires having a life of novelty and excitement and socializing and.. well… being in front of the cameras.
My ex-husband tried to keep me from it by telling me I wasn’t a good mother if I needed and wanted the limelight or to be fabulous or to just have some enjoyments of my own. He threatened to leave me and take our son if I took a trip to Europe I bought in an effort to give myself an experience I’d always wanted, all the while hiding the fact that he was cheating on me, pretending I was the crazy one.
My current husband lets me do what I want. I travel when I want, I do shows and photoshoots and act a fool all I want. But I’m beginning to pick up on another form of dissent.
We’ve all seen that little girl who is larger than life. She prances around singing and dancing and trying to get everyone’s attention. She can be so freakin annoying. You can tell that girl she isn’t a good singer and that she needs to pipe down in social situations so as to not draw attention to herself. Or, you can just ignore her. Don’t cheer, don’t condemn, just walk off from her so she acts a fool by herself. Slowly she’ll realize she’s not worthy of attention and go back to doing what get’s her at least some praise. She’ll quickly learn the loneliness of trying to be seen. That’s unless someone in her life picks up on her talents and decides to feed her, train her, and help her grow.
I wonder if my husband’s even aware that he’s slowly choking me from his disinterest. I’ve asked him before to help me with my career goals, and he acts like a deer in headlights, like I’m asking him to speak Chinese. I asked him the other day to help me pick out some new headshots and he said virtually nothing during the meeting with the photographer and left as soon as he could. “They’re all good,” He finally said then switched the subject to something he was doing.
He supports me by letting me go to the front but leaving me alone do it, secretly wondering why I’m trying to get all that attention anyways. His actions seems to say if you want that, you’ll have to do it by yourself. I’m not standing there to make it easy.
I woke around 5 in the morning, sober and wanting to feel his warmth. My husband was awake, I could feel his stirring. I fought through the intense emotions of Mardi Gras that were ebbing and flowing. Do I hug him or not? Do I say something or not? Do I apologize or not? Is there really a problem here or not?
I decided I’d let my body do the talking and pulsed radiant sexuality from my pores. I got wet just thinking about having his dick inside of me and his kisses on my neck. It’s been a few days since I’ve had my dose of his masculine medicine. I just knew he’ll feel the impulse to grab me, say he was sorry and make love to me slowly, so I waited patiently.
One hour passed, then two. I fell asleep finally feeling worn and depleted. Did he ignore me again or did he really not feel my passion? I did not see him get up the this morning and go.
That’s it. I need an agent.