The Seven Year Itch

I don’t know what’s been up with me for the past week or so; I just haven’t really done much in the evenings whatsoever and this blog has suffered. My apologies!

Hopefully, that little blip of an odd mood is over and I’m focused again here. To celebrate me resuming normal service, today’s blog is kinda about love. You might think it’s just because tomorrow is Valentine’s day, but it kind of isn’t. Although it kind of is.

I haven’t called today’s entry The Seven Year Itch because my husband is on the verge of having an affair (realistically, how would I know what’s going on in his head/heart?) or because I’m suffering the urge to move on from the situation. Seven years ago on the second Monday in February (it was the 14th and, therefore, Valentine’s day), I followed my usual evening routine as if it were simply any other work day.

This included heading to my friend’s home for them to get changed before watching a bit of TV and then safely escorting me home. Except on that Monday evening, completely ignorant of the Saint, we settled down to watch a DVD and then I didn’t go home.

I won’t give it all away, much like seven years ago when I didn’t give it all away that night, but needless to say that was the beginning of a new relationship for me. One that was completely different to the ones before.

Boyfriend number one was older than me, and I was far more naive than my age should have allowed me. During and after all the years with him, he managed to convince me that I could do no better than him. We argued and fought. A lot. And it wasn’t the nice kind of bickering that’s still present with my husband now.

Boyfriend number two was a rich, attractive, drunk who turned out to have serious issues and could not let go. He was the only person I ever dumped. He was determined that I would start wearing heels, skirts and make up, that I would act how he wanted, move where he wanted us to live, live in his life. Perhaps if I’d have been stronger, the relationship could have worked and I could have fought my corner. But Number One had made me eager to find someone, anyone to love the unloveable me.

Boyfriend number three was less a boyfriend and more an older man with whom there could never be any future. He was the object of my crush and, for someone who had been convinced they could not be loved, who had been told their future was mapped out, someone with no future, no love, simply desire, it was what I needed then.

Boyfriend number four was the guy from work who incredibly kindly walked me home every night. I saw him as a friend, assumed he saw me as simply a friend. He may or may not have been lying, but after that DVD on Valentine’s night, we were not just friends. He understood Number One who had dragged down my self esteem. He understood Number Two who had wanted to mould me into the perfect little wife. He understood Number Three that had boosted my confidence. And he understood that I needed time.

It may not have started in any sort of normal way for a relationship, but, as I sit here, seven years later on the eve of Valentine’s with a husband playing some silly game like Angry Birds, it was the perfect conclusion to the first three. I have no desire or urge to change the situation. And he’d be too scared to have an affair!

~ Persephone M

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