Sunday night, I took care in donning my thigh high stockings, lace and silk slip, 5 inch heels, and LBD for dinner with my boyfriend. It was a….hopeful little get up.

My boyfriend, for his part, put on a suit and picked me up in a cab in front of my place. We went to a quaint and lovely restaurant in the Gold Coast where we shared a quiet, relaxing, and tasteful meal. It proved to be one of the best I’ve shared at any restaurant anywhere. It was one of those dinners where everything just came together: the service, the food, the wine, the conversation, the pacing, the ambiance. It was like magic.

Throughout dinner, we laughed and reminisced, shared our food with and plans for one another. But, unavoidably, reality crept in. While I am immeasurably happier these days, and while the Zoloft continues to help, I am still hampered by some of its negative side effects. In particular, the loss of my sex drive.

Well, Happy Valentine’s Day to you too.

The reality is, while the desire, the interest, the “spark” is still there for me; it’s fleeting at best. And perhaps most libido killing of all, the ability to “successfully arrive at my destination” has entirely vanished for me. Believe me, I’ve tried. Still a no-go.

Yes, it can be frustrating. Yes, it can still be “good.” And yes, I still give it “a go” and stuff, but…IT’S NOT THE SAME. Knowing that, a part of me has relinquished this portion of myself as the price I pay for finally feeling happiness. But, this Valentine’s Day, I’m not the only one paying for it.

That’s right. This Valentine’s Day, we didn’t have sex. There, I said it.

I’m not going to go the trite route and say, “But we have so much more than that,” like it’s an “either or” situation. Or act like we don’t need that portion of our relationship or something. Not only would it be trite to throw statements like that out there, it would also be delusional and inaccurate.

The truth is, we do need sex and it’s not okay that we didn’t have it after dinner on Sunday when we “celebrated” Valentine’s Day, nor on the actual day either. I feel horrible guilt for my role as my boyfriend’s sexless valentine, and the pressure of my failure has made a mockery of whatever hope I harbored when purchasing and actually wearing that lingerie in the first place.

For all the guilt I feel and all the pressure I place upon myself, my boyfriend miraculously refrains from adding to it and instead remains supportive. He is patient with me, listens and tries to understand, and still finds value in so many other parts of our relationship besides the one. He stuck by me last autumn as I fell apart and continues to stick by me as my current state sullies the unique affection only we two are supposed to share.

And yet, after dinner as our meals sat heavy in our stomachs and we lolled about haphazardly and fully clothed, we came to an agreement. We let ourselves off the hook, noted that this Valentine’s Day is just one of many more to come. In the end, we didn’t have sex, but what we did have may prove more lasting.

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I go to Victoria’s Secret. I get fitted for a bra (don’t get too excited boys- no nudity or boob fondling is involved), which is generally a sad experiment because each attempt seems to yield a different result. 32B. 34A. 34B. Triumph! They’re getting bigger! 32A. What the fuck!? Then, I proceed to try on the box of bras they stuff you in the fitting room with. Also, a sad experiment. I hate, loathe, want to find the original designer of said bras and ask him what the hell he was thinking by making a bra that requires a BOOKLET with step-by-step DIAGRAMS to put it on properly.

Of the 6 or 7 bras left in the bra box, I seem to always end up picking the most sedate and comfortable. This bra is an everyday bra. It goes to work and goes grocery shopping. It folds laundry and watches the Barefoot Contessa (Why is that by the way? She is neither “barefoot,” nor a “contessa.” Hmmm…). This is not a sex bra. This bra does not know how to flirt or blow kisses or blow anything for that matter. If you’re lucky, this bra will order online for delivery make you dinner.

This is the same bra I was wearing one day, as I sat at work complacently talking to GDF and Emo, when something happened. There was movement. The right strap didn’t slide downward, no, this time it simply GAVE UP. It popped off its latch and became ”untethered.” Which is precisely when the front of my bra and the little booblet in it began to keel forward. I’m free! I’m free! Moo-ha-ha-ha. I imagined her saying. The strap had failed, and as my chest subsequently ran amok, I ran to the Ladies to latch that shit back down.

Which is why I have to ask; how is it that after everything I’ve been through to find this “practical” bra- when I’ve forgone any hint of sexiness for comfort and have shelled out $45 or more- that (at best) the bitchass thing goes on holiday down the sides of each shoulder? Is it afraid of heights? Is it secretly rebellious and wants me to think it’s a sex bra after all dammit? Are my shoulders abnormally “slopey”? Is that even a word?

We may never know the answers to any of those questions. We may never know. But what we do know is that you can’t return a bra like that because “it’s been worn” and yes, that would be gross and/or wasteful and the very opposite of green-friendly. This bra is thus still in the rotation, and wouldn’t you know I’m wearing it today!

Which means I sit here typing and every few lines finds me digging at my raging under boob and surly straps. Apparently, they seem to think Today Is The Day they’re going to make it to my hitherto illusive elbows. And at this point, I’m apt to say fuck it and let them.

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Mixing up molasses with my 30 YEAR OLD mixer...seriously. It was my mom's when they got married!

Soft Ginger Cookies with Extra Sugar & Cinnamon

Will you just look at ALL that counter space?!

Peanut Blossoms with a Kiss

English Thumbprint Cookies with Raspberry Jam

Chocolate Crackle Cookies

Dipping the Orange Chocolate Cookie Logs in dark chocolate, then rolling in chopped pecans.

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I read an article today in December’s marie claire about the new male midlife crisis, the whole premise of which is to shed light on the growing and disturbing trend of man-boys who remain in long-term relationships with “keepers” whilst refusing to “put a ring on it.”

According to the article, “the old [male] midlife crisis was triggered by the pressure and routine of providing for a family that relied on a guy for survival; the new one- which comes before kids, often before marriage- stems from trying to keep up with a woman who may not need him at all…[who] offers a financial safety net, the patient acceptance of his neuroses, and blow jobs in equal measure.”

For me, the article felt very familiar and, for the most part, rang true. In a lot of ways, I feel I’ve lived it. Whether it’s been in a long-term relationship of my own or even a brief encounter with a hot/then cold guy, I feel certain I know this terrain well. And I’ve come away feeling that I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t. The younger guys just want to play, want me to be aparty to their friends-with-benefits schemes. The older ones want the ego boost of a younger woman, making me an accessory to the crime. So what’s a girl like me to do?

In my case, I’ve historically struggled with Big Talkers, guys who promise much and follow through on next to nothing. It’s not that they won’t commit per se, but that they make it sound like- or even worse promise- that they will, that they want to. In the end, when *shockingly* they do not, I wind up feeling like there’s something wrong with me. I feel like a failure; that I’ve failed the relationship test, failed to be good enough.

It’s a horribly disheartening downward spiral. And all the while I see my friends go on and “master” the whole relationship thing, get married, and live The Dream- or somebody’s version of it at least. I look at them and wonder, what am I doing wrong? Why am I deigned not good enough? Why am I not the kind of girl for whom men want to ensure is theirs “forever”?

It’s sad and pathetic and everything you’re not supposed to admit, let alone write. Still, it’s how I inevitably feel each time another relationship ends and/or a guy intimates that a real relationship is not what he’s after, that “hanging out” is how he likes to operate.

The thing is, I’ve ridden that carousel, enjoyed it for its merits, and reached a point in my life when I’ve elected to relinquish my ride ticket. I may not be gunning to put on a white dress and call it a day just yet, but neither am I rearing to enter into a going nowhere fast relationship situation. But we were having fun, weren’t we? they say with that checked-out shrug. Yeah, “we” were having fun until one of us wasn’t anymore, until one of us realized that the ride you’re offering circles into PERPETUITY. Dicking around would be the phrase, I believe, with the accurate appendage providing the appropriate personification.

Guys like that, the carousel guys, are as the article claims, “part of a cause-less generation…spoiled as kids…now they want to spoil themselves as adults. The old cliche was that a man would wake up one morning and realize that he wanted his youth back. The new version is that he never reached adulthood in the first place…[he] feels entitled to fun; sacrifice is not in [his] vocab.”

There’s truth to that, if we’re to indulge in generalizations (and let’s face it, the article and this post are rife with them), but what about the man who has grown up, who has also chosen to debark the carousel (and maybe even cash out of “the circus” altogether)?

It cannot be ignored that I am in a long-term relationship again and that this very topic has arisen a number of times between us. It is, in truth, a hotbed of residual baggage for both he and I. He’s older, has been married and divorced without children, and has his own strong opinions about the matter. And I…haven’t.

I spent most of my twenties in an LTR that resulted in couples counseling and not much else. Sprinkle a handful of disinterested He’s-Just-Not-That-Into-You man-boys throughout for good measure and you’ve got a fairly accurate depiction of my adult dating life. So, no, I haven’t had any of the experiences that my boyfriend has. I haven’t even been given the chance.

Perhaps the article best captures our stalemate: “he wonders, do I really want to fill a slot, to be the final check mark in her idea of the ‘perfect life’?” And I wonder, is that how it comes across- as a check box? Is that really all it boils down to? For me and/or for him?

Without resolution between us, I read articles like today’s and ask myself who’s got it right, who’s the more “evolved” party? The modern woman who’s independent, successful,  well-rounded, and doesn’t need a man to provide for her beyond the provision of “love”? Or the modern man who’s fun-loving, successful, appreciative and supportive of her merits, but who doesn’t need marriage or babies to find happiness or “completion” in a relationship? Is it possible for these two “modern” halves to make for an honest and happy whole relationship? Or did women’s lib simply fuck us all over- men and women alike? Where the hell do any of us possibly go from here?

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Vanilla.

Isn’t that, like, an insult or something? Isn’t being vanilla a bad thing? What is it supposed to mean if I’m vanilla? Am I? And if I am, would I be one of those fancy vanillas like the Barefoot Contessa uses? Would I be a rare form of vanilla bean, if there is such a thing? Would I be a French vanilla or a Dairy Queen vanilla? Are there degrees to being vanilla, to one’s vanilla-ness?

And if I’m not vanilla, what am I? Am I my own veritable 31 Flavors? Or am I more of a Neapolitan variety- a blend of three key flavors, one of which happens to be vanilla? Am I some seasonal exotic limited edition of awesome? Do I go well with coffee?

The whole thing reminds me of that scene in My Best Friend’s Wedding when Julia Roberts’ character equates Cameron Diaz’ character to crème brûlée. You know the one. Julia essentially tells Cameron that she’s fancy, uptight, high maintenance, but delightful. And then, conveniently, imbues her with the revelation that perhaps Michael (the fiancé with the would-be dessert problem), would rather just have no muss, no fuss Jello instead (i.e. herself). You’re ne-ver gon-na be Jello!

Sure, I’m no crème brûlée, but does that mean I have to be the Jello? Does that mean I’m boring ole’, “comfortable,” stand-by vanilla? Can’t I be something else?

There’s nothing extraordinary about vanilla, and I want to be extraordinary. I want to be memorable, distinctive, enticing. I want to be something like, yes, why not….dark chocolate. There’s still a sweetness, but it’s laced with a bitter edge- especially the really good stuff with the 60% cocoa. Not for everyone; precisely. Me.

Can’t I be dark chocolate instead? Pretty please?

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We were laughing over ice cream one night. We had gone and gorged ourselves on hot dogs beforehand and somehow rolled ourselves down the street to the Coldstone. And, while I toiled away at finding an annex in my stomach to stow my strawberry cheesecake awesomeness, you made a joke about a rumble in your own tummy. How you felt certain your half-digested chili dog just punched your newly-arrived ice cream in the face. Right in the face.

There was something about the way you said it, the offhand way you mumbled the words, never thinking how it would make me smile and laugh until tears formed in my eyes. I laughed and you laughed for making me laugh and I laughed all the more.

Maybe it wasn’t the most romantic moment. It wasn’t flickering candlelight or coral-hued sunsets, wasn’t flower petals or rolling around under the covers- the rest of the world be damned. But it was happy and real and unrehearsed.

It was the first moment those words entered into my mind as I looked at you. With my hand over my mouth, I caught them before they spilled out, and when you asked, I just shook my head with a smile.

You didn’t know it then, but in that moment I knew. I could really love you.

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At this point, I don’t know whether to be annoyed or… maybe a little turned on? Alas, the boyfriend and I are not given to school night sleep overs, so there’s no waking his ass up at 2:30. Sigh. So now I’m sharing it with you.

It all started a few months ago, despite the seemingly endless fickle spring we’ve had this year in Chicago, when on one of the first “warm” nights, windows were flung open to catch the fresh lake breezes. What began curiously at first, quickly devolved (or evolved? hmmm…) into a full on spectator sport. Is that? Noooo. Is that what I think that is? It kinda sounds more like a zoo actually- is she pretending to be a monkey? Or a lion? Huh.

And while it may have begun in the bedroom, it now regularly occurs in the living room as well, ECHOING across the courtyard. No joke; I can literally hear them over Kendra and Chelsea Lately. Don’t for one second allow the air times of those shows to mislead you into thinking these champs are at all restrained by time of day.

I can honestly tell you, while they seem to really enjoy Sunday night action, they’ve also been known to go to it around the time I arrive home from work and AGAIN as early as 9:30. They’ll even throw in a semi-early Saturday morning and occasionally an alternate Tuesday night as well (ostensibly because, as everyone knows, there isn’t shit on TV).

Tonight, or early this morning rather, while she trotted out her signature “Ah, ah, ahhhhh, oh yeah!” (every time, every single time), for my added voyeuristic pleasure- just a few minutes after like a proper gentleman- I got to hear him finish as well. Prior to that “specialness,” I’m fairly certain I could actually hear the slapping of his…well, you catch my drift. At that decibel, how can that not hurt?

Needless to say, while it never seems to last long, they certainly pull out all the stops. And now? God love ‘em, round two just got started.

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