I think it’s fair to say that sex is a substantial part of my life. I talk about it throughout the day, I think about it nearly as much, and I have it as often as logistically possible. I know you’re thinking this is no revelation, that I’ve made this statement a thousand times before, but work with me here.
As I scrapped the first draft of this blog post this morning, I realized that when it comes to my life as a whole, sex makes up a very small portion of it. It’s not always about sex, and that’s okay. Sometimes it’s about self-evaluation, or finally finding a way to let old wounds heal, or rediscovering pieces of me that I thought were lost forever. Sometimes it’s simply about being an emotional, and on occasion, a ridiculously irrational woman.
Take last Thanksgiving, for example. I’d rather stand naked and covered in honey under a swarm of angry bees than relive that day. A little dramatic? Maybe, but my marriage was unraveling at a rapid pace, and so was my husband’s grip on his perfect life. He wouldn’t speak to me, or even look at me if it could be helped. But when it did happen, the booze-inspired hate in his eyes was unmistakable. I could hear it when he spoke. Hell, I could hear it when he breathed. And I was alone with him, except for the children, because our families chose to stay away. I couldn’t blame them. I didn’t want to be there either, but I had no choice. I spent the day going through the motions just as I had in the years past, preparing one dish, then the next. I put on a happy face for the kids, because that’s what parents do. But the lump in my throat was a constant reminder of how miserable I really was.
This year was different. I was alone most of the day, which I admit took a little adjusting to at first, but it was time I needed to reacquaint myself with my grandmother’s cornbread dressing and giblet gravy. Don’t even get me started on her apricot glazed turkey. Anyway, they were things that were attached to memories of my childhood, things I loved. I had cast them aside early on in my marriage to please my ex. Instead, I cooked what he wanted, the way he wanted it, regardless if I liked it or not. My feelings on the subject weren’t important to him, because compromise was something he didn’t seem to understand. I didn’t realize how much I would come to resent him for it later. Being southern, cooking was part of my identity, but it no longer gave me a sense of pride. I felt like I had no heart left to pour into it, and I eventually stopped altogether.
As I pulled out my grandmother’s recipe book, I was determined to make cooking fun again. I chose my playlist, and I belted out Blinded by the Light while I peeled sweet potatoes. I may have even used the peeler as a microphone, but there’s no proof of that. My neighbors probably hate me now, but that’s okay because I hated them first. I consider my selection of 80’s hair bands payback for that yappy dog they throw outside every fucking morning before dawn.
I’ve reclaimed more and more of myself in the months since I made the decision to end my marriage. I know I’ve still got a long way to go, but this Thanksgiving added another piece to the puzzle. I made the things I wanted, the way I wanted them without anyone looking over my shoulder, or challenging my culinary skills. But my emancipation was about much more than being able to have green bean casserole on my menu again. It was about me taking back another chunk of control I’d given up so long ago. And tweeting pictures of my boobs.
