Today, I could have done with an affair. At least the thought of one.
Was on the way home from the course and got a text from hubby saying "Can you be home by 5.30? I need to go out." Of course, I responded. Perhaps he wanted to nip out and buy me some flowers. Perhaps someone had an emergency he needed to ride his horse to. Perhaps HE had an emergency. HE did. Bikram Yoga.
Don't get me started.
Oh, I already have. Ok then, here it goes.
Said hubby has been working interstate for the last six months or so. My Monday-to-Friday gig has revolved around sleep-deprived nights, chaotic mornings and evenings, working four days and juggling the world, three kids and the kitchen sink. Blah, blah. Said hubby has been bike riding, Brazilian martial artsing and Bikram Yogaing. Probably all three at once. For all I know he's been doing it all to the daffodil tunes of Doris Day (whilst my neighbours probably have me on speed dial to DOCs- "There is a crazy woman next door that yells a lot.")
Anyway. He has been back exactly three days. For three days he has gone to Bikram Yoga. Bikram Yoga??
Seriously. Why on earth go out and exercise when you could stay home and share my misery, hover around Facebook for two hours and sit slumped in the chair next to me with nothing to say. Coz that would really be my preference. Seriously.
And here is the conundrum. Apart from continued announcements of going out and doing, like, fun stuff for himself, he is actually much nicer to be around. And he looks hot. Me on the other hand...well, I'm perhaps about 7 kgs heavier, much wrinklier in the forehead (yes I know they are called frown lines), and haven't so much as taken a run to the loo, let alone flung a flexible leg over my neck, for as long as I can remember. And the worst thing?? IT'S ALL MY FAULT. Somewhere between that first fertilisation (ie when the sperm met the egg) and 2009, I forgot how to take care of myself.
Everything I do, and I do mean everything (I think), has an element of putting someone else first. It can't be right. Or healthy.
The first fleeting thought was the affair. How nice would it be to have a fella that didn't Bikram Yoga and instead stayed home, walked around with low slung shorts and six pack for a shirt, lathered up in soap suds as he moved from hand washing the dishes to the delicates to the car (including removing the toast ingrained in the floor mats - sorry, that may have ruined the image), before laying a gorgeous dinner in your lap, handing you are wine and asking what YOU want to watch on telly. Bikram Yoga?? No real men (other than Becks) would be caught dead in a lotus pose when they could be lifting dishes at home.
Then I realised this sort of man only exists in porn movies (here's an idea - porn movies for women: no sex, just lots of naked men running around cleaning from one end of the house to the other) and that an affair would probably land me with a man that plays weekend golf, watches 16 hrs of footy telly in one hit and/or calls me by the wrong name. Is there no win in this snatch another male game?
For true satisfaction, I would probably have to look closer to home. And that means looking at him.
He's happy. He's content. He does have a six pack. He loves me much more after yoga than before yoga. In fact he loves the whole universe a lot more after yoga than before yoga.
I need a piece of his pie.
So Friday we're joining a local yoga/pilates/gym place together. We'll tag team this whole happy daffodils and butterflies thing together. If he's gonna have fun and be all zen-like and sexy looking, well damn it, so will I :)