Perceptions of Perfection

I’m perfect.

No, really. I’m the shiznit- ask anyone.

Okay, okay. You can stop laughing now.

Seriously though, I’m emphatically NOT perfect. Not even close. ‘Perfection’ and I have never met. And I’m okay with that.

I never aspired to be perfect at anything.  My thought on the matter is simple: I’m as perfect as you DESERVE me to be. I give as good as I get (and often better), but sometimes I get it wrong and when I do, I REALLY get it wrong.

For instance: Did you ever have the feeling that you married the wrong person? Or accepted the wrong job? Or bought the wrong car? Sure you have. We all have, at some point. We’ve done things we regret and tried to make the best of the situation until the opportunity to escape presents itself.

But what if “escaping” isn’t as easy as simply finding a new job? What if we ARE talking about marriage?

It ain’t so easy, is it?

I love my husband. I always have and I’m pretty sure I always will.  I may not LIKE him all the time and I may think his choices suck ass, but I’ll still love him. He’s the father of my children, a wonderful provider, my voice of reason and he has supported my dreams at every turn.

But fucking-A, sometimes I want to strangle him. And this urge is becoming more and more frequent.  We made it through the proverbial Seven Year Itch relatively unscathed, but that might be because I was already getting scratched by THAT GUY. Now we’re staring down the barrel of 15 years together and I’m just not sure we’ll make it to 20.

We don’t fight. We rarely argue. We’re more like good friends and good parents than we are spouses.  Sure, he encourages me to pursue my love of all things culinary, and yes he’s a great dad and a good friend, but he’s a lousy spouse.

There. I said it.

And maybe it’s not that he’s inherently a shitty husband. Maybe he is just not right FOR ME.  Sometimes I wonder how the fuck his parents couldn’t see that their precious bundle of joy can be a selfish, petty and condescending asshole when he wants to be. Of course he could say the same thing about MY parents, but they’d agree with him: I’m tough chick to tolerate. In fact, when Hubby asked my dad for his blessing before proposing to me, my dads response was “Really? Are you sure you want to do this?”

And you wonder from where my low self-esteem originated [insert eye roll here].

Back then, I’m sure Hubby loved me and envisioned our life would be an extension of the year we spent cohabitating before the wedding. And it was, to an extent. Truth be told, when I was standing at the head of the aisle just about to start my walk toward the altar I started to hyperventilate. Like, really badly. Luckily my dad was there to calm me down and remind me that I was lucky to find a man as good as this one and I shouldn’t fuck things up because I’ll never be that fortunate again. [Insert second eye roll here].

Anyhoo, we’re were okay for a while, but once the sex embargo began, it all went to shit. It wasn’t an immediate thing…it was a slow-growing resentment that ate away at us gradually. And yes, I said “us”. I’m pretty sure he resents the fuck out of me, too.

Thing is, neither one of us seems to want to do anything about it. I know I don’t.

I’m tired of trying to fix it. Been trying for the last 10 years and it’s gotten me nothing but an eating disorder, scars from a crappy boob job, and a complex about my worth as a human being. I can stand tall knowing that I did my best and didn’t raise my white flag until I absolutely couldn’t take anymore.

But somehow that doesn’t make me feel any better.