Great, we’re fighting again. I feel like it’s always around this time of year that we’re at each other’s throats. Maybe it’s the changing of the seasons or maybe I’ve got that seven-year-itch, but lately we just haven’t been clicking. We’re supposed to visit my mom this weekend, but I’m just not sure Steven and I can keep it together in front of her. The bickering over every little thing, the snarky retorts, arguing over where to order out from; it’s just becoming increasingly difficult to live with. Steven of course is my “World’s Best Dad” coffee mug that I legally married back in 2006.
The first few years of marriage were laden with affection, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other! All my friends were jealous in our unabashed desire. We never fought! We agreed on virtually everything! My penis and balls were the perfect circumference to fit inside the rim of his mug!
People used to ask me if the fact that I had an abusive father has anything to do with my love for a “World’s Best Dad” mug. If that subconsciously I had decided that I wouldn’t let another person ever hurt me again, and that by selecting an inanimate object that referenced a wonderful father was a way for me to gain my dad’s love that I was never afforded without the risk of being physically harmed? Hahaha, I DON’T EVEN KNOW HOW TO RESPOND TO THAT! Except to say that if you watched us together when we are at our best, you wouldn’t question our love, but rather the love that was missing from your life and how you too could find a way to fit both your penis and balls inside your partner.
But at a certain point we started to diverge onto separate paths: I in my late 30’s and experiencing the requisite mid-life crisis, while he became more reserved, silent, and cold. The silence between us turned from a comfortable one to an awkward sullenness.
I knew everything had come to a head when we went to a friend’s party and I set him down on the refreshments table and began chatting it up with a wooden wheel of cheese about the European banking crisis. I came back an hour later to find another partygoer drinking out of Steven, with Steven laughing maniacally the whole time at my shock and awe.
So now we’re at a crossroads, do we ignore the infidelity and go on with business as usual to my mom’s house for the weekend? Or do I confront the issue, air my grievances, and see where that takes this relationship?
I can’t start over, not at my age. He’s most certainly worse for the wear as well, his rim stained from the late night kissing sessions, his bottom patched up from that horrible day we spent in the emergency room after he fell off the counter. But damn it all, if I don’t love him. So that’s what I’ll do, I’ll just keep my mouth shut, grin and bear it, and love my coffee mug husband like only I know how.
By sticking my penis and balls entirely inside of him.