Although I intended to make this week’s blog a continuation of my research into my husband and my respective 16 Personalities, I decided to leave that for another week, and focus, instead on matrimonial “retreads.”
Matrimonial retreads. (Yes, it’s a Veronicism.)
- The opposite of uni-marrieds
- The recycled partners—Recycle, Reuse, Remarry
- Those of us who have been married more than once.
Last week, as I got to know some new folks at my meet ‘n greet at Indigo Stoney Creek, I was received with many wide-eyed looks, followed by comments like, “You’ve been married twice?” I get that a lot actually, but that day just really made a bunch of recent comments I’ve received come to light.
I remember in my second marriage, people were quite surprised that, at my youngish age, I was on my second rodeo. In those days, I would get a little defensive about it and probably didn’t reply with grace or eloquence. Back then, I used to make some comment about how athletes don’t go pro right away—rather, they have to spend some time in the minor leagues honing their skills. I referred to my second husband and me as “professional spouses”—I thought we’d graduated from “rookie spouses” and finally made it to the big leagues. Little did I know…
I was talking to a gentleman a few weeks ago who gasped at the “twice divorced” topic, and I quickly stated that I was now married to my forever husband.
He replied with, “Well you know what they say about people who have been married three times?”
“Three’s a charm?” was my comeback.
He let out a sincere belly laugh, but it threw him off so he never did tell me what “they” say. It’s actually bugging me now. What do “they” say?” Do I want to track him down and find out what “they” say? I think in this case, maybe some things should be left unsaid.
My forever husband and I have been together for almost seven years (but married for five), and about six months ago I started to worry about the “seven year itch.” My worries were not unfounded because I was beginning to see a change in him—change that I was not fond of at all.
Our communication skills took a hike, we spent most of our “together” time at arm’s length, and my husband became an angry bear 98% of the time. I was getting very nervous. Actually, I was getting damn scared. I finally couldn’t take it anymore and emotionally puked all over him. Where was my lover? Where was my best friend?
I’ll give you a snapshot of what the past 365+ days have looked like, so you can understand what we were up against:
- We helped my daughter find and buy her first house: December through February
- We renovated said house (the once-thought “lipstick job” unveiled some major problems): April through July (evenings and weekends whenever we could)
- My literary baby was born: April
- My granddaughter was born: May
- My day job continued to move at a break-neck pace: All bloody year
- My husband became more and more restless at his job: Every day for three years now (he works in a very negative and unhealthy environment)
- Social media efforts for my book began: July to…
We were both spread very thin. Our days consisted of work, then home, then hubby making dinner while I retreated to my office to write a blog, a tweet, or plan my ongoing social media campaigns.
Through all of that, there was one thing neither of us realized was killing both of us—our lack of physical affection.
Sure, we had our romps in the hay, but outside of that, we weren’t cherishing and adoring each other like we used to. Like we should do.
The day that I emotionally spewed all over my husband, he reciprocated with some good verbal left-hooks as well. It was clear that our lack of physical affection was going to be our demise. As I may have mentioned before, one of my strongest “love languages” is physical touch.
The first few days of my renewed physical output (well, more like a couple weeks), felt awkward. It felt forced. It never felt forced before. It was weird. I almost felt ashamed. I couldn’t really look him in the eye most times. It was like hugging a stranger. Mind you, in the almost-seven years together, the touch of his skin (whether it’s his hand accidently brushing against mine, or when we spoon at night) has always made my toes curl. I admittedly have an incurable addiction towards my husband. I’m blessed and cursed to be so unconsciously attracted to him. He’s my kryptonite. Just thinking about him now is starting to make me feel warm and tingly in all the right spots.
After only a couple weeks of our renewed efforts, it was like the skies opened up and a ray of light was shining down on us. My lover is back. My best friend is home. My heart is, once again overflowing.
A co-worker approached me the other day and, in talking about my book, said, “I didn’t realize you’d been married twice before. You know what they say (oh here we go), ‘First you marry for love, then you marry for money.’ So what is the third time?”
He caught me off-guard for only a split second as I reflected on that statement.
“I think you’re right actually,” I admitted. “I did think I was marrying for love the first time. And the second time, yes… I guess you’re right on that too. Although I loved him, I was excited about our financial future.”
It only took me another split second to answer his question after that.
“First you marry for love. Then you marry for money. Then you marry for life.”
So, will this marriage survive?
Yes. Yes it will.
Three’s a charm.