But as much as I love my husband, as much as we do fit together, as much as the things about him that drive me crazy really aren’t that bad, the real reason I don’t want to leave my husband is that I’m just too damn comfortable. I don’t want to start over. I think back about all my old boyfriends and the one significant thing that separates them from my husband is the level of comfort. We may have had things in common, had a physical attraction to one another, enjoyed each other’s company, but when it came down to it, I was never completely comfortable being myself. I could never fart in front of any of them. I could certainly never shit in front of any of them. I could never ask one of them to pop the giant zit on my back, or do the same for them. But with him, whether it’s a good thing or not, I can do those things. I’m comfortable. As cliché as it is, I can be myself. I act the exact same with him around as I do when I’m completely alone. Even though I have close friends, this isn’t even true of them. I once audibly farted in front of Ginger. I was staying over at her house while back visiting my hometown, and we had just gotten into bed. It was a little fart, but the shear embarrassment led me to the only response I could have—the giggles. For the first five years of our relationship, my husband knew when I farted. Not necessarily because he heard it or because it smelt bad, but because after I would fart, I would giggle a little—a certain embarrassed giggle, a giggle specific to this one incident. I’d fart, sit there for five seconds, glancing over at him to see if he’d noticed, then start giggling. And instantly he knew. Now I no longer giggle, but just wait for him to give me a dirty look and say, “Ewe. Was that you? You are disgusting.” And then I laugh.
Along with being comfortable with each other goes letting yourself slip physically. This is certainly true of both my husband and me. Although I try to look my best most of the time, I’m not one of those people who can’t leave the house without make-up. I’ve been known to run to the grocery store in my sweats, and on occasion have left the house having forgotten, because of a distraction by the sorrows of a three-year-old or the happenings on Facebook, to go back and put on make-up. I certainly have my days, and compared to my two best girlfriends I’m the frumpy one—quite obviously the mom with my comfy jeans, sensible flats and tee-shirt that probably has a small stain on it from something my son spilled at breakfast. But overall, I make a conscious effort to look professional and presentable. At home, however, I’ve become incredibly lax. Shave? Why? Unless I’m wearing a skirt or planning on going swimming, I see no reason. Sexy nightgown? Not if I haven’t shaven, and my sweatpants and his oversized sweatshirt are so much more comfy. Haircuts every six weeks? I don’t think so—who has time for that? Bikini wax? I’d love to, but I don’t have an extra fifty bucks a month right now to do that, and home waxing kits just don’t work. I’d shave, but the resulting razor burn, infected ingrown hairs, and break out in dozens of whiteheads is even less desirable than the amazon-lady look.
When I was in high school, I worked at my friend’s parents’ medical office. At fifteen, I received a call from a patient wanting to make an appointment. I’d worked there for a while, so I’d gotten used to patients giving me more information about their medical problems than I needed to know in order to simply make an appointment. But this woman took it a bit too far. She was having some problems with her vaginal area. It was sore and itchy. And according to her husband, she informed me, it was quite red. Um, gross. Vaginal soreness and itchiness, okay I’ve heard that one before. But, especially at age fifteen, the idea of one’s husband poking around down there, checking things out, was just disgusting. That’s what the doctor is for. But now I get it. Not that it’s still not a little icky, but I get it. It’s not like you can easily see your own stuff. And honestly, who better knows your vaginal area than your husband?
Part of our increased level of comfort is derived from necessity. In our tiny little house, we only have one bathroom. While this isn’t as bad for the boys, whom I can just direct outside (yes my husband and son have been known to pee in the bushes in the backyard, usually because someone else is in the bathroom, but sometimes because they’re too lazy to come inside if they’re in the back playing) this doesn’t work as well for me. So if he’s in there with his face covered in shaving cream and I have to pee, out of necessity, I have to pee in front of him. My husband and I also often shower together. And no, not like that. For us, showering together isn’t erotic. Trust me, watching someone scrub their crotch isn’t sexy. We shower together because it saves time and money. I’m lazy and usually don’t get up on time. Meanwhile, while I’m snoozing in my comfy bed, Evan is out in the living room taking care of our son. By the time I get up, we only have enough time for one shower. Often, this ten minutes is the only time in the day he and I have to be alone and quiet. We utilize this time not by being intimate, but by discussing our plans for the day. Having only one shower in the morning also cuts down on the water and electric bill, which, again, for us is a necessity.
Even with this, my level of comfort with my husband increased dramatically when I got pregnant with our first child. While pregnant, especially during the last six weeks, there were things I couldn’t do on my own. Some simple things, like tie my shoes, or paint my toenails. Some not so simple things, like shave my legs. I enlisted his help in all of these things. The last three weeks of my pregnancy, my son decided on a new location within my uterus. When I sat in a certain position, he would crush a nerve in my right hip causing a pain so intense I was physically unable to stand up on my own. Being pregnant again right now, I fear this condition more than I fear the actual labor. It was the most painful experience I’ve ever encountered. And this certain sitting position just happened to be the exact position of my toilet. So for three weeks I could not fully sit down on the toilet and be able to get by myself. For 90% of my bathroom trips, this was okay as I could hover. But for the other 10%, hovering just wouldn’t do. Sometimes you have to sit down to take care of business. So after those times, I’d call my husband into the bathroom, he’d lift me up, then hold me for a couple minutes while I cried and writhed in pain. Now that’s being comfortable. That’s love.
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