Apparently, I’m full of Love.

I went to therapy.  As I had been told many times, I was met by a genuinely warm and happy older man, who made something that is generally uncomfortable and painful for me, much less so.  I am sure there are other therapists in the area who would work well for me, but truly, I’m glad that I stuck to my guns and was insistent on seeing Dr. Wolcott.  Interestingly, despite being fairly convinced that my life and marriage were falling apart, Dr. Wolcott thought otherwise.  Apparently, I am full of love.  However, instead of showing this love in some healthy, well-mannered way, I will go to the ends of the earth to rescue you from whatever problem you have.  This may be not having enough time to do chores around the house, to, in the case of friends (looking at you Mr. ENFP), dropping whatever is actually bothering me, to help you rescue your relationship.  Myself is never first.  Now, how we are going to fix that is beyond me.  I assume that is why you actually continue going to therapy.  But, the root of the problem is simple.  I am a fixer of all the problems.  And by golly, if you have a problem, I will fix it.  It’s very classic INTJ really.  We see above the whole situation and can hone in and take care of it.  And I do so excellently.  I do it at work.  I do it at home.  I do it socially.  If there is a problem, I have a solution, and chances are it’ll be good and effective.  So that’s what we’re going to work on.  Also interestingly enough, Mr. ENFP was quite aware of this (pre therapy), so when I called him flabbergasted at the latest misgiving of my husband, he let me vent all of my frustrations prior to telling me that his girlfriend had likely ended their relationship.  True to form, I immediately put my frustrations aside, and helped come up with a grand gesture in hopes of reconciling, which he dutifully followed.  True to form, they reconciled.  See.  Fixer.  It also speaks volumes that he’s sensitive to this, and spawns many many levels of questions that will have to wait quite some time, as he is in Europe for the next two weeks.

Also interestingly, the root of so many of my problems may not be my husband, but instead, my dad.  When we started going on these trips to Houston, I was supposed to essentially be a taxi driver.  I had to make sure he was where he needed to be, but the rest was up to my dad.  Now, I manage it all.  I book the hotel.  I figure out what we’ll do when we’re in Houston (although admittedly, it’s what I want to do, not what we want to do).  I find out and catalog where he needs to be when, and whether he can have food prior to whatever procedure he is having, and if he cannot, how far in advance he has to stop eating.  I keep up with where we need to be, and whether this is something that is a firm appointment, or soft arrival (i.e., labs are soft arrival.  As long as they’re done before the procedure that follows, who cares).  Pretty well, my dad just has the procedure done to him. I am 100% responsible for the rest.

Despite all of this fix-it ability, there is one relationship at work that is seriously suffering.  In the firm I work at, offices line the exterior walls with cubes on the inside.  It’s all open, and unfortunately the area is particularly live.  We have a younger, inexperienced, secretary who is an ESFJ (universally, this personally rubs me the most wrong, except for maybe my ISTP brother), and a member of the mean/pretty girl clique.  Why we still have these things past high school just boggles me.  In any case, a lot of the firm thinks she is delightful, which if you are in a position of authority, she is.  However, she’s dumb as a brick, and has zero desire to learn more, and is lazy.  I kid you not, she has said several times “I’m smart enough.”  That statement right there is why we can never be friends.  Unfortunately, my boss and her boss do a lot of work together, which means our work overlaps a great bit.  She is now 3 cubes down, which has helped us some, but not enough.  Today’s drama – she complained to HR about me using speaker phone.  Specifically, I used it twice.  Once, I dialed a long distance phone number and then picked it up after dialing.  The other time, I was on the phone with HER boss trying to edit something with HER boss.  So, the HR guy comes to me in his passive-lets-all-be-friends way, which I detest, and tells me how I can’t use speakerphone.  I immediately then email her boss that anytime she wants to edit something, I need to come to her or she needs to come to me.  We will see how this goes.  I detest office politics, but if what I’m doing isn’t wrong, you damn well better believe I will fight back.  I hear her cough, vape, and type all day with her fake fingernails on the keyboard, and never say a word.  Maybe that should change.

More therapy Tuesday.  Thank God it’s Friday.


I have an aspie husband.

My husband was diagnosed with Asperger’s at age 29.  Though it had been suspected for years that he was an aspie, the official diagnosis came after hours and hours of testing and interviews.  We had been married for two years. At the time, the diagnosis was a beacon of hope, as it enabled him to receive services towards job placement, among other things.  Now, 6 years later, I see it as the beginning of the destruction of our marriage.

Since then, I’ve become a self taught expert on asperger’s and the neurotypical relationship.  I know what my husband’s needs and limitations are, and most of the time, try very hard to respect them.  However, asperger’s changes as you age, and with the onset of the diagnosis, it became an excuse, for pretty much any ill behavior.  I have always fought terribly hard for a social life of my own.  If he wanted to tag along, that’s great, but if not, that was ok too.  I was still going to see my friends.

3.5 years ago, after most of a year trying, we got pregnant.  The asperger’s diagnosis was looming large.  I always wondered if someone on the spectrum could truly care for and take care of an infant.  They can by the way.  I knew that I wanted a baby, and that worst case scenario, I could manage a (single) baby.  Unfortunately, my pregnancy was abominable.  I threw up every day, all day, from exactly 6 weeks.  By 16 weeks, it slowed down some, but then anything that so much as looked at my gag reflex would cause me to vomit.  At around 20 weeks, I swelled up like a balloon and at 24 weeks on the nose, began the trek down the road with preeclampsia.  I was fine until I wasn’t.  At 25 weeks, 1 day, our son was born.  He spent 3.5 months in the NICU, followed by another 4 months on house arrest as he came home during the worst RSV season in decades.  By that point, whatever social network I had was gone.

I struggled through that for about a year and a half.  At that point, I was miserably lonely, and questioning my own marriage.  See, the thing about aspies, is they can put on a good show to convince you they love you and woo you, while you’re dating.  Once you’re married, that show is unnecessary.  I’ve read countless places that NT wives felt duped, and admittedly, my husband and I have had conversations on several issues, where I felt the same way.  In any case, I reached out, on facebook to several friends of the past, notably all male.  I don’t know that I had dishonest intentions, but I don’t know that they were honest either.  I’ve always gotten along with guys, and I knew they wouldn’t want to talk about our kid.  Luckily, one of the friends I reached out to was Mr. ENFP.  Frankly, I owe a lot to him for the fact that I’m still married.  He has always championed the work it out attitude.

One of the traits of asperger’s is that an Aspie is very conflict averse.  So anytime there’s any sort of fight or disagreement, there’s this immediate need to fix it, now.  Except you don’t really fix anything.  You put a bandaid on it.  Finally, the wall of bandaids was so thick and tall with the wound festering underneath, the whole thing fell off.  I don’t know if we’ll stay married.  I get to this point of not wanting to be with him anymore, and then I sit with that, and get really sad.  Failure of any marriage is sad, but I sit in this circle of unknowns, because as sad as it is, I still love him.

Add to the mix, we now have a 2 year old, who is healthy and opinionated and wonderful, except when he’s being an asshole.  I have a dad who has lung cancer.  I’ve become the sole caregiver for everything MD Anderson related.  I have a VERY demanding job, which I love, but that sucks the life out of me.  And then I come home to a cold house, where even though I am with my husband, I’m alone.  I have made some new friends over the past year, in surprising places, and I think that  is what gives me the strength to go to therapy now.  That, and that Mr. ENFP has suggested it every time my husband and I have a fight.  The INTJ can be worn down.

Hopefully therapy will yield something positive.  At least there’s hope.

John Popper’s Vaginal Teeth

Mr. ENFP works on occasion at a local music venue which houses both random, weird local to the area, and famous musicians, in this case, John Popper from Blues Traveler.  Specifically, he’s coming May 17.  Mr. ENFP is working for that show, and told me about it a month ago, and much to his surprise, I was a giddy little school girl.  He often tells me of the artists he meets, and most of the time it’s like telling me what you had for dinner.  But, I am a huge Blues Traveler fan.  Child of the 90’s I am.  So he and his friend, who also works at the MIM were talking, and the subject of John Popper came up.  Apparently the dude is a total tool.  Needless to say, the autograph I have been pining for will not be happening, and frankly, after further information, I don’t know that I want it.  His production company is called Vaginal Teeth.  Surely by decision of MIM, there will be no females on the crew that show.  When Mr. ENFP told me that, it was more than slightly off putting.  The vag gives life, and love, it doesn’t bite.  It’s soft and warm, and a place of safety.  Surely we all have our qualms about the vag (Is it itchy?  Does it smell ok?), but at its core is what makes me a woman.

The name – Vaginal Teeth – in itself is derogatory towards women.  It implies evil and malice – like the vag is out to get you, or something of that nature.  I’ve been running with this thought since 7am this morning.  In a world of #metoo, and all of the other movements that have come up, a name so blatantly anti women just is jarring.

I am sure whoever formed this company surely has some deep rooted issues towards women, none of which I can address.  Also, I know I wasn’t always perfectly wonderful towards men I dated.  I have been called cold on numerous occasions.  Once I decided I wanted out of a relationship, or that it wouldn’t work, I was done.  I never cheated.  I never intentionally inflicted harm.  And, now as a woman, half of my life is based on care.  I care for my husband.  I make sure clothes are ironed, people are fed, dogs are walked, etc.  I care for my son, which is obviously a time consuming endeavor, as life is with all two year olds.  I care for my dad, who has lung cancer, by going with him to MD Anderson every other month.  Those trips are no picnic.  They’re grueling, and long, and by the end, as much as I love my dad, we have to take a few days off from each other.   I care for Mr. ENFP.  I offer counsel to him.  I share my days with him.  We support each other.  I care for my male bosses.  I make sure they have what they need. I try to anticipate their needs for work.  All of this I do while having none other than a vagina.

I’d like to say I’ll get past this situation and be the avid fan that I always have been, but I’m really not sure.  While me and my vag don’t always have a loving relationship with each other, she’s mine.  She’s what makes me, me.  And really, that’s a lie.  My vag and I always do great together.  I know how to make her happy, always.  It’s when you start adding other parties to the mix that she can be picky.  Be kind to the vag.  Without her, none of us would be here.  She should be cherished and loved.

An evaluation and self reflection

I’ve been busy.  Work is busy.  The semester of class is winding up.  Life is busy.  We go on vacation in just over two weeks.  I go back to MD Anderson with my dad in just over a week.  But, as I enter a time of year where things try to tie themselves up into bows to relax over the summer, I can’t help but reflect over where I have been, and where I’ve come in a year.  Roughly a year ago (I’m not sure of the exact date, but we are right on top of it), Mr. ENFP and I reconnected.  At that point, I was lonely.  I had nothing pushing me forward.  I had a one year old who was almost two, who was as self-sufficient as one year olds are, but who was past the demands of infancy.  Life was waiting to open back up past motherhood.

A bit of a tangent, but everyone always talks about how much work it is to be a parent.  While I won’t disagree with that, to me, it’s not about it being so much work, but more this all-consuming life shift. You go from being an individual to a mother.  Suddenly this little life is your responsibility.  You have to make sure it’s fed, and rested, has clean clothes and a clean diaper, and you also have to provide for its safety and well-being.  Sometimes a baby just needs and wants to be held.  Though toddlers want that less, they still need it too.  Having come so early, he came with many complications, all of which have seamlessly resolved, but the suction into motherhood was hard and solid.

Anyway, you spend the better part of two years of your life in this all-consuming state.  Somewhere around the two year mark, the child gets just a little less dependent, or your brain says its had enough, or both.  That’s where I was this time last year.  My husband hadn’t yet gotten out of this state.  I was bored, and lonely, and just under stimulated in every way. Facebook would still occasionally suggest reaching out to people during this period, and while I didn’t do it when Facebook suggested that I reach out to Mr. ENFP, Facebook did suggest we reconnect.  It had annoyingly reminded me of his birthday.  10+ years of nothing from Mr. ENFP, and all of a sudden I would see when he liked or posted stuff.  Mr. Zuckerberg’s crew had ideas.  So I messaged him.  Apparently, I messaged him at the worst point in his life.  His marriage had fallen apart.  By all standards, his life was in a shambles.  As he entered summer, he entered this vast wasteland of nothing to do except drink and be miserable.

I am not prone to meddling in people’s business, but for whatever reason, I asked what happened, and probably pushed a little bit.  He’s always been more prone to sharing than I was, but shared he did.  Then I was involved.  My friend was floundering, and while I couldn’t necessarily make anything better, I could make sure that he didn’t get lost in the abyss.  The hours I have spent consoling and dissecting life with Mr. ENFP are real.  Looking back, he probably didn’t want to share with those too close to him, but he had to share with someone.  Someone who he’s known since high school who happens to be 1200 miles away was probably a safe bet. I remember him dropping the gauntlet over Facebook messenger while I was at work, and me literally pushing the chair back, having to digest out of shock.

So a year later, he’s a much shinier version of himself.  He’s doing well.  Really well.  Maybe he’s not where he wants to be, but I’m not totally sure he knows where exactly that is yet.  There’s all of this potential and energy bubbling just under the surface, waiting to explode.  He’s worried about summer as last summer was such awash on the things he wanted to do, yet didn’t. And while nobody ever does all that they want all the time (I mean, what would be left to do if we did?), I do fully believe he will, at the very least lay, the groundwork for something phenomenal this summer.  I have a lot of pride in seeing how far he has come.

Our friendship has made several significant evolutions over the year.  When I reached out to him, I don’t think I was looking for an affair, but I needed something.  I felt like I was mentally wasting away.  Admittedly, feelings from the past were resurrected, but those have burned and cooled.  There is a great amount of love there, I believe on both sides, but it’s the love of great friends.  It’s familial.  I defend him much like I’d defend a sibling (except I can’t stand my little brother, so really it’s what I imagine defending a sibling would be like).  There was a lot of insecurity at the beginning, and really until recently, on my part.  It’s not often that I open up to people.  It’s less often that I allow myself to need them.  Mr. ENFP pushed me to get back into music.  He pushed me to begin the work towards paralegal certification when I decided I had too much on my plate.  He pushed me to try to make friends with people.  While I don’t have a bursting circle of people around me, I do have more friends than I did a year ago.  One of them didn’t make the cut (ESFP + INTJ = loads of frustration), but not all friendships do.  Now, a year later, I’m mostly confident most of the time that Mr. ENFP is just my friend, and will always be my friend, whether we talk 15 times a day or 1 time a week.  That security will be put to the test in a few months, but that’s not now.

Likewise, my husband and I have made great strides over the past year.  We’re more intimate with each other.  We have more frequent and better sex than we did a year ago.  We haven’t made it back to the position of team, but we are both working towards that.  I am interested in seeing how our vacation will be. We’ve never taken a vacation with just the three of us, and our son has never been to the beach.  It should be both a wonderful and exhausting experience.  Usually I read about 6 books on the beach.  My goal is 1-2 this year.  I have been forewarned many times that going to the beach with a toddler is an entirely different experience than going to the beach as an adult.  I feel like there is a whole world of possibility brimming with us as well.  Time will tell.  We’ve both decided we are in this for the long haul, and the long haul is never a quick journey.

As for me, a year later, I still feel some unrest sometimes.  I’m in a phase of growth.  I can’t do real paralegal work until I am certified. That leaves a certain amount of boredom at work. Unfortunately, there’s still at least another year and a half of class for that.  Growth musically is slow and connections based.  The connections were dormant for so long that they take a while to push back together, but it’s coming.   My dad is still alive.  The trips to Houston are every other month.  They’re exhausting, but he is still alive and working, which is better than we were a year ago.  All in all, I’m in a better spot than I was a year ago.  Frankly, I have Mr. ENFP to thank for a lot of that.  Sure I had to do the leg work, as did he in his own life, but it’s nice to have an advocate who will both cheer you on relentlessly and call you out when necessary.

Facing the spectrum

My husband has asperger’s.  He was diagnosed late in life, I believe he was 30.  We knew he was an aspie before the diagnosis, but as he was older, you had to have a psychiatrist referral for the testing, and his psychiatrist wouldn’t sign off on it.  Really, ultimately, it hasn’t mattered.  I don’t really do anything differently in our relationship than I did before I knew he was an aspie.  But, it brings a different colored light to things.  One of the things that is the most important for a well-functioning aspie is cognitive behavioral therapy (“CBT”).  As a neuro typical, no matter how introverted, we reach out into the rest of the world and ask (cognitively or not) how what we are doing affects the world around us.  Someone on the spectrum does exactly the opposite.  They ask how the world affects them.  Seeing a CBT helps keep the aspie opened up into the world just enough to pass for a little weird.  With the right therapist, things are great.  With the wrong one, they’re terrible.  Medical intervention is important, and he is on a variety of medications, but that therapy, that’s the make or break.

He had a therapist for many many years who was wonderful.  Frankly, I figured they’d grow old together.  He knew the whole family.  I’d been with my husband a few times.  However, therapists don’t generally make much money, and as things go, he decided to become a nurse practitioner.  Since then, my husband has gone to one of his partners, who was disastrous, another guy who is a CBT who would randomly cancel and miss appointments (also disastrous), and has recently began seeing a lady who is not a CBT, but was recommended by his psychiatrist.  She has requested to meet me, which is a first in our relationship.  My husband liked her on first meeting, but first meetings generally are pretty benign in the therapy world.  It’s like trying on a pair of jeans – ‘do you immediately not fit? No?  Well, I’ll keep coming to see you.’  Eventually you find that person who just gets it.

So tomorrow, my son will go to his grandmother’s and my husband and I will trot off to therapy.  I’m a little anxious.  I won’t lie.  This has, without a doubt, been a growing year for us.  As we approach our eighth anniversary of marriage, I feel the weathering we have taken this year.  Having a child who was born 15 weeks early takes its toll on any situation.  And children take so much time when they’re small.  This time last year, I truly felt as if I’d lost myself, and was dismally gray.  I am not exactly sure what I was looking for at the time, but when I reconnected with Mr. ENFP, I was looking for something.  Now, he stands kind of as that reminder that I need to consider myself occasionally.  He’s helped me get back into music which has been an excellent outlet for my life.  But, with Mr. ENFP’s friendship, I feel much stronger in my marriage.  I know what I want and need out of my marriage, and what I can’t get out of my marriage.

For me, marriage is a place of comfort.  It’s a refuge.  It’s a soft place to land.  We all take care of each other and love each other.  We encourage each other, but it’s not the place to challenge or push.  But, I need that perspective to keep moving forward – working towards paralegal certification, advancing my playing.  And that is where Mr. ENFP (and Dr. ENFP) come in.  He gives that edge of a push of accountability to make sure that I’m doing what I need to be doing, and when I’m not, he will call me out on it.  The situation is likewise, but this isn’t about him.  It’s about me.

I feel fairly confident that the subject of Mr. ENFP is going to come up tomorrow.  It’s been a sticking point in our marriage multiple times over the past year.  Frankly, I will be surprised if he doesn’t come up.  All week, I’ve been examining his role in our marriage, and I feel fairly certain my husband has been doing the same.  About 80% of what we talk about is musically related.  The friendship is mostly based out of accountability.  I’ve watched my husband examine this as well.  I hope he’s come to the same conclusion.

Therapy will be what it will be.  I’m going in with an open mind and an open heart.   Really, that’s all you can do.  I’ve been in this marriage for eight years, and have plans to be in it for many many more years.  I hope he sees that.

Post 6

I have been struggling for days what to write.  I have about five half composed posts, none of which I like the direction they traveled.  So I start anew, again, on post six, which I’m determined to publish, no matter what direction this takes.

I’ve found myself folding further and further into myself the past week.  I’m not necessarily full of thought, but more observing the world around me.  It’s not turbulent.  It’s not emotional.  It just is.  Mr. ENFP and I had a pretty significant squabble last weekend, which basically came down to our friendship not being 100% mutual because it couldn’t be.  By nature, I am more available than he is.  I have a kid, so there comes with that a certain attachment to your phone.  You can’t quite get away from it ever, in the thought that one of the grandmothers, or husband will call with a problem or broken bone.  So far, neither has happened, but still, as a mother, it’s what you do.  My schedule also fits more neatly into his, than his into mine. Still, in that realization, it causes me to step back quite a bit.  In my teens and 20’s, I was perfectly fine with being the better friend.  Not really, nobody’s ever just fine with being the better friend, but still, I accepted it as a part of who I was.  In my 30’s, if you’re not putting as much into a friendship as I am, you are simply not worth the effort.  My time and energy are both finite, and I will give you exactly no more time than you give me.  It sounds harsh, and feels harsh, but in the week that I’ve cared just a little less, except for the writing of this paragraph six times, I have felt better.  I can’t make him something he’s not. If he chooses to let deadlines slip by for applications to various colleges, so be it. I’m not his mother.  I’m not his girlfriend.  I’m certainly not his wife.  I’m in this vague ambiguous box, with more power or pull than a normal friend, but nothing that will ever be defined – confidant, voice of reason, any number of names that could be placed here, nada.  Just friend, with my own shit to worry about.  That seems so dry and harsh, but really, it’s not.  He’s still my friend.  But he’s not my life.  I have a husband and child who I adore.  Sometimes you have to put people in their respective boxes, and let them be. Interestingly, since I’ve established this boundary, which I need for myself, he’s been around more frequently, constantly trying to edge back in.

In the rest of my life, I’m working on paralegal certification.  This semester, I’m taking legal writing (which is dull as dishwater.  I do this every day) and debtor creditor law (which I hope to never really use).  Surprisingly, debtor creditor is interesting.  The guy who teaches it is an ADA, and he has basically set us up a lawsuit with in the class that we are both prosecuting and defending, depending on which team you’ve been assigned.  I’ve been assigned to the contractor team.  Paperwork wise, it’s the easiest.  No matter what, we lose.  We’re liable for the bill that was unpaid.  It just is.  But, as I try to find some exception to assert, some claim to pass on to some yet unidentified third party, I spend more time digging around in circles, proving everyone else’s case, but my own, which can’t be proven because like I said, we’re wrong.  Legally, factually, everything.  Wrong.  We lose.  We owe the money.  Were this real, I’d have advised our people (or rather told whatever lawyer I was working for to advise our people) that we should settle this quickly.

Likewise, the teacher who teaches legal writing made this big speech at the beginning of the semester that the law touches on all things political, but that we aren’t supposed to talk about politics.  So what does she do?  Pretty much every class has started or finished with something that our magnanimous orange president has done, usually that day, and wondering what kind of legal authority he has to actually do it.  Yesterday started and ended with his latest ploy of sending the National Guard to the border with Mexico.  She’s got something there.  He’s not declaring war.  They’re not border security.  Just exactly what are they doing?  What authority does he have to actually make them do whatever it is they’re supposed to do?  I imagine hundreds of thousands of men all linking hands like in elementary school playing Red Rover with the illegal immigrants trying to get into our land.  I mean really.  People die in the desert southwest trying to get in.  This happens often.  This happens so often that various welfare groups leave collections of water along the way for the crossers who would surely perish otherwise.  Perish.  Die.  Notice that I did not say get a little hot, or maybe have some heat stroke.  People are found dead in the desert in Arizona who try to cross into the US.  Are you really going to deploy the good men of the National Guard into that?  Really?  And, again, what authority do you have to do this?  You’re not declaring war.  You’re not really protecting us from sort of imminent threat.  You’re not rescuing our citizens from some natural disaster.  You’re sending some dudes down south to play grown up red rover.  Except nobody [from Mexico] gets to come over.

We’ve also entered that time of year that burnout is real.  Vacation is a mere six weeks away.  I can almost feel the sand and taste the salt of the air. The beach calls to me.  Swimsuits have been ordered.  My cell phone shall be silenced and left in the condo while my husband, two year old, and I bask in our SPF 45.  Sometimes you need to disconnect.  I make no bones about it – that time is now.

Six posts in, and I wrote 1000 words.  I sit quietly, not talking, merely clicking away on a keyboard, but I’ve done what I set out to do.  It doesn’t look anything like I’d like it to, nor is there any cohesive theme, but Post 6, you’re done.

Judging your sexuality only against yourself

My husband and I have been together 11 years.  I came into the relationship with a plethora of sexual experience.  Slut shame away.  I will own it and am proud of it.  College was fun.  I was his second lover, and his first was brief.  He has always been super self-conscious about making sure he pleases me, always, but he gets nervous with the female anatomy, and how what did the trick one day may be downright uncomfortable the next.  Mr. ENFP and I have talked about this some, how to expand his horizons without hurting his feelings, but mostly I end up feeling inadequate.  Mr. ENFP is no doubt comfortable with his sexuality.  He has been with a myriad of partners, some of which who are, and some of which who aren’t equally as comfortable.  Currently, his partner is exceedingly comfortable.  They’re also new, and not 11 years, a toddler, some dogs, a parent with cancer, and full time jobs in.  When my husband and I were new, we were pretty frequent too.  Anyway, somehow in my mind, I’ve made it the goal to be as frequent and varied (and he could be feeding me crap) as they are.  Call me competitive.  Call me bored.  Call me whatever you want.  11 years is a long time.  But, here’s the thing, I have a toddler, a very demanding full time job, a dad with cancer, classes that I’m taking, and an ensemble I’m playing in.  Plus I cook 5-6 days a week, keep a house, and try to enjoy a little time with my toddler.  Somewhere in there, I find a few moments to myself.  My husband and I consistently do the deed once to twice a week.  As I get close to my Houston trips, we might take a week off, but as soon as that’s done, we’re right back at our usual pace.  I’m not a nighttime person.  Ideally, we’d have afternoon delights, say around 2pm.  After the toddler goes to bed, I’m tired.  The last thing I want to do is figure out how to creatively get off.  So, in our experimentation, I’ve tried to slow him down a little bit.  With all that is going on around me, I take time to get warmed up.  You have to distract me from all of the shit I’m responsible for, and cause me to focus on you, and that my friends, takes a little time.  We have recently started experimenting with lube. Accidentally, and unfortunately, that came in the form of coconut oil.  It makes a great massage substance, but as a lube, it leads to one thing – yeast infections.  And no jolly 30 minutes is worth all of that.

So today, I reached out to several people – Mr. ENFP, Dr. ENFP, and my stylist, to see what their thoughts were.  I wanted something preferably silicon safe, but outside of that, my only requirement was that it wasn’t sticky.  With Mr. ENFP, I now feel sufficiently sub par.  I blushed when asking my stylist, who was happy to answer, but laughed first.  Dr. ENFP talked about it like I was buying hairspray, which is exactly what I wanted.   I learned something too.  Just because you assume people are doing it like rabbits, doesn’t mean they are.  Dr. ENFP and her fiancé haven’t done the deed in 8 months.  8 months of living together.  He is apparently super self conscious, and wants to mostly wait until they’re married.  I have to say, my once to twice a week of dedicated romping around doesn’t sound so bad after that.

Ultimately, I think what matters is what works for you.   Yes my husband needs to broaden his horizons, and yes, I need to be more comfortable in saying what I want and don’t want, but we are trying.  We’re actively doing, and actively trying to make each other feel good as often as we can stand.  We have a toddler, a full life, a dad with cancer, and I have a demanding job.  As long as we are finding time to connect, whether sexually or otherwise, that’s what matters.

But, I’m still looking for that fantastic lube, edible or not, that is silicon safe and not sticky.  Suggestions welcome.