Tuesday marked the first year of my time with Mr. K and it was an anniversary I’d been hesitant to acknowledge. The date loomed on the calendar like the countdown to a natural disaster. It taunted me daily, daring me to accept it as a tangible event. I refused. Or tried to anyway. I believed that doing so would somehow upset the balance of our blissful existence, putting our relationship on the path to failure.
In my experience, anniversaries weren’t cause for celebration. They were burdensome obligations that bred contempt. They were awkward dinners and flowers I’d rather shove down my ex’s throat than in a crystal vase because I’d grown to hate them over the years. And they were painful reminders of the person I once was.
Almost two weeks ago, I read Two Years written by Dumb Domme. It was both sweet and sad and it made me all warm and gooey inside. As usual, her writing was brilliant, but the thing that struck me was how she doesn’t focus on the uncertainty of their future. She recognizes that if she did, she’d miss out on today. Yeah, she’s kinda my hero. Like Wonder Woman, but way hotter.
I know that avoiding uncomfortable details, regardless how small, doesn’t make them go away. It allows them to fester and eventually grow into ugly complications. It’s the story of my marriage. But my relationship with Mr. K is different. Our communication needs a little finesse at times, but we’ve come a long way in that department and we have no secrets. Because of that, I finally shared my fears with him, relieved to discover he had fears of his own. Okay, so they aren’t irrational like mine, but the fear of disappointing me worries him just the same because he’s human. We both are, and being able to talk openly took the edge off my concerns but the shadow of doubt remained.
We didn’t make plans to celebrate our first year together with chocolate cake and champagne. We didn’t text Happy Anniversary! and we didn’t give each other silly cards. We gave each other multiple orgasms on the eve of our one year anniversary and we lay naked in each other’s arms, revisiting our first connection, the night we finally met, how we’ve evolved together and the mind-blowing sex along the way. It was the best non-anniversary ever. But as I lay in bed the next morning while Mr. K showered and dressed for work, I found myself buried under weighty feelings of angst.
The pangs of anxiety were unfamiliar. They weren’t the usual twinges of unrest that ate away at my insides after we parted ways. This was something new. And the inability to identify the foundation of my symptoms had me turned inside out.
I called Heather as I drove home, trying to make sense of my scattered emotions. She was walking around her house naked and covered in…um, yeah, but I was floundering and she knew I needed her. I successfully choked back tears a couple of times as I bounced conversation highlights from the previous night off her, certain that none of it was at the root of my unease.
“Sweetie, do you think maybe you’re feeling this way because you’re still worried about the anniversary thing?”
“What…why…oh…”
She was right. I thought I’d worked past connecting anniversaries with unhappiness, but obviously, I had not. Deep down, I still remembered them as sad occasions representing the loss of the person I was and a future as someone I wasn’t. I gave up the free thinking, sexual being I was, stuffing myself into a marriage that didn’t fit. On the outside, I was the ideal wife and mother. But on the inside, I died a little every day. I’ve been reborn, though, and it’s time to stop believing in ghosts. I see now that it wasn’t the anniversaries themselves I hated more than the thought of cellulite on my ass. It was the miserable marriage they represented.
The past year with Mr. K has been filled with more love, laughter and orgasms than my entire marriage. I wouldn’t trade it for the world, not even the tears. I don’t know what the future holds for us and I’m okay with that. I don’t need promises of tomorrow to make me happy today. I believe that besides death and taxes, nothing in life is certain. And if fate allows me one more night with him, I’ll take it. If it allows me a hundred more, I’ll take those too.
I think this calls for naked group hugs. <3
Love you so hard!
Yes! I LOVE naked group hugs! You need to bring your gorgeous ass back to the warm weather. Well, not today because it’s 52. But tomorrow when it’s 88.
I love you too!
I’ll be back in July! Just for a little while, though.
Yay! Let’s do lunch! Or each other! Or drinks!
OMG, Nikki, I just saw this:
“I read Two Years written by Dumb Domme. It was both sweet and sad and it made me all warm and gooey inside. As usual, her writing was brilliant, but the thing that struck me was how she doesn’t focus on the uncertainty of their future. She recognizes that if she did, she’d miss out on today. Yeah, she’s kinda my hero. Like Wonder Woman, but way hotter.”
I mean, all of that “brilliant” and “warm and gooey” stuff is fucking awesome, but seriously, what really matters… you think I’m like Wonder Woman? Only hotter?
Honest to fucking goodness (and not just because I’m half-drunk), that’s as close to tears as I’ve ever been reading something fantastically sweet someone has written about my blog and my writing. Okay, maybe you’re like, the only one who has written something fantastically sweet about the blog… but still!!! The tears are made of vodka, but they are no less mine.
*blush*
That’s it. I’m driving south to give you hugs. Maybe even nekkid ones.
[…] Anniversaries Are Bullshit – In the past I connected anniversaries with unhappiness, and my first with Mr. K pushed me […]