My husband is hot

~ Christi

He looks like Matt Damon. His sister said it once, so I know it’s true. My friends all think he’s cute.

He should always keep his hair short. It sets off his face.

He looks smart in glasses. And hot in sunglasses.

He’s getting these little smile lines around his mouth. And his lips. I could look at his lips all day long.

He’s strong, and his arms and legs are so long and graceful.

His eyes are piercing blue, and sometimes I feel like he can just see inside me without even trying.

He has no idea how good-looking he is. He doesn’t care a whole lot, either.

I think that he should work out more. Not for me. But so when he catches a glimpse of himself in a reflection, sees other women besides me admire him, he will know that he’s hot. Without a doubt. I want that for him.

He knows me. He understands what I like him to do, he knows how my body works.

He is so loving. He will do anything for me.

That’s sexy.

Why I’m not perfect

~ Christi

I’m short. You like tall girls. At least you used to.

I cut my hair. You liked it better long even though you never mentioned it.

My skin used to be really bad. It’s better now, but not perfect.

Three times you had to watch me, ever so slowly, lose the baby weight and get back into shape. That’s just not sexy.

For a long time I didn’t want you to have fun without me because I was scared that you wouldn’t need me anymore.

I like weird, sometimes long and boring movies. I make you watch them with me and then sometimes I fall asleep.

I don’t let you finish your thoughts when we’re talking.

I push you to be better at things even though you are already fulfilled at them.

When I get angry I am very self-righteous.

I am changing the game on you.

Why I will never move to Hawaii

~ Christi ~ 2 Comments

Hawaii makes me believe in God. Something intangible about those islands, their coarse black lava juxtaposed against glorious green grass, towering palm trees, and the ever moving ocean, makes me feel free. There, I feel beautiful. I see that Geoff is truly perfect, and so are my kids. Everything I want, Hawaii provides.

A few years ago, we had the chance to move there. We did not take it. We did want to, and part of me will always regret not doing it. But in the end, I needed to keep Hawaii special. When I go there, I always want to see it with fresh eyes. I never want to get used to the feel of the breeze against my skin. I never want to stop being able to smell its sweet, earthy scent. I always want to feel the strain and the challenges its terrain presents. In those elements, the islands renew me, fuel me, help me grow.

When we return home, I can take up the daily tasks of living again, knowing that I have not left my perfect self behind, but given it air and water and all the elements that keep it whole. I have preserved it within my everyday self. At home, I can do what life calls on me to do, I can witness Geoff doing the same, push my kids to learn, struggle, and grow, without a doubt of why it is worthwhile. Our lives always remain rooted in imperfection, with the promise of an occasional green flash.

An old house

~ Christi

I’ve noticed that sometimes when I live in the same house for awhile, several years at least, I stop seeing it. Not just seeing, but experiencing it.

We live in an old house. It has a pretty front porch, enormous windows, high ceilings, detailed moldings. The house has lived much longer than me. Longer than my parents did, and longer than my grandparents. It has had a life of its own, and that life is evidenced by its creaky floors, its cracks, its dungeonous corners of the basement.

We’ve lived here for a number of years, and at first my eyes were drawn to the arches in the hallway every time I passed through. I was disgusted daily by the musty smell of mothballs in the attic, until finally, we removed them. I’d notice the striking beauty of the sunlight and shadows through the front window in the afternoons, especially in the springtime.

Now, I still love the details of the house, but somehow time has softened them. Living in the house has diminished my experience of it. I can no longer smell the mustiness, I can barely hear the creaks when I run down the stairs.

But when we go away on vacation? Returning refreshed from visions of palm trees and crashing waves, or energized from brisk walks through a busy city, I experience the house anew. As soon as I open the door, I smell the dank, old-house smell. I get excited by the sight of the mantle and fireplace in the dining room. I hear the creaks when I walk across the floor, and they feel both familiar and new to me.

The essential

~ Christi ~ 1 Comment

A few weeks ago, while my daughter attended her Sunday school class, I sat in on a meeting with the rabbi on how to make the Passover seder more accessible to your attendees. Most parents were there to learn how to make the seder less boring, more fun, for the kids. The rabbi gave lots of good ideas — toys, games, costumes, decorations. I liked her ideas, but our family always focuses holiday celebrations on the kids, especially when it comes to religious celebrations. It’s our way of repressing the discomfort of facing the question of God and the force of spirituality in our lives. Legitimately, we have a lot of religious conflict around the table, with members coming from different backgrounds, different religious worlds. The older generation has agreed on a don’t ask, don’t tell policy, and for them the seder is just another opportunity to see the grandkids. Giving the kids candy and games, eating a nice dinner, and wiping our hands of the religious side covers our responsibilities without making anyone uncomfortable.

Now, at the meeting, the rabbi brought up an idea that stuck with me. She asked what the matzoh represents. Of course the traditional answer is that is symbolizes the Jews’ escape from slavery in Egypt. But the rabbi took the time to suggest an alternate reading, that our eating of matzoh as Jews is an opportunity to focus on the essential parts of ourselves. A meditation, without ego or the commotion of expectations. What things most make us us? What work do we need to do internally to uncover that essence?

I believe that when you have an existential question, the universe puts answers in your path. Or maybe that the answers are always in front of us, like clues, but you have to ask the right questions to unlock their meanings. This year, for the first time in my life, I enjoyed my matzoh.

Maybe by next year I’ll work up the nerve to share it with the rest of the family.

At the museum

~ Christi

A Georgia O’Keefe. No, not one of her flowers. A wooden cross, black, in the forefront. The New Mexican desert behind it, and a sunset. This is striking. Sitting on a bench, I sketch it. Why am I drawn to that cross? It’s almost morbid. So large and dark that it overtakes the rest of the painting. I can see the nails in the center of it, boring into the wood, holding it all together. Then I notice the lower quadrant of the cross. All the others are smooth and opaque, no brushstrokes, no movement. But that lower part of the cross is fluid. The paint curves downward in long strokes, falling, seeping down toward the vegetation below. It’s as if the wood has turned to water here. Taken as a whole, the cross is overwhelmingly solid, unmovable. Yet when I break it apart, examine one piece at a time, I find this fluidity. The cross is no less permanent because of the waterfall within it, and this duality draws me in and holds me.

This, this is what I want in my life, in our marriage.

Why I’m blogging

~ Christi

It all started five months ago when I realized that I wanted to fuck another man.

First, a word about my marriage: Its earliest chapters began when we were kids, in grade school. There were sleepovers where we slept in each others’ beds. There was groping and whispering, yes, as six-year-olds. We loved each other before we knew what love was.

Separated by our parents’ choice, reunited as college students, Geoff and I felt that we couldn’t interfere with fate. We married at 23, and never doubted our choice. Six happy years passed – we worked, traveled, did our own thing together. Sex was always good, but in a quiet way. Then three kids arrived. Yes, all planned. I wanted to be in the middle of that, to be swamped with motherhood. And the kids did the trick. They took all that we had to give.

Now to the present. I turned 35 this year. I am the most me that I have ever been. I begin to take stock of my life. Where am I going from here? I begin running. I fucking love to run. Me, who has never run anywhere willingly before now.  I make Geoff a deal. By the time I am 36 I will be on a path back to work outside the home. I need to show my kids how it’s done.

In January, I get a sinking feeling in bed one night. Geoff is bored. Or I am. I set out to improve our sex life. My hunt for inspiration takes me to the bookshelf, the Victoria’s Secret catalog, and finally, to the internet. There, I find what I hoped for, and it turns out to be a disaster. There I find a blog, a weird and outrageously hot blog, which – just so creepily – seems to be written for me. I know, that’s delusional. But I just could not resist that blog. And I went so far as to email the blogger. And email him again from a secret email address. Oh, it gets worse. I dragged Geoff into it, and we shared a sort of e-tryst with that blogger for several months. I shared pictures, emails, recordings. I loved every minute of it, until I didn’t anymore. I loved, and I didn’t love, the confusion that our interactions brought me, the need for self-reflection, so long missing from my life.

Around the end of March, the interaction began to feel out of control. I wanted to stop, Geoff wanted me to stop, hell, even the blogger wanted me to stop. But I just couldn’t. For some reason, the whole process had brought out my creative side. Ten years after grad school, five years of not working, and I found that I had a lot to say. I started my blog, at first with Geoff. I wanted to write, draw, make art, all the time. How could I give that up? But Geoff would not stand for it. Our marriage counselor wouldn’t stand for it. Even our friends didn’t approve.

So I paid a visit to a well recommended psychiatrist, a previously unimaginable idea for me. That’s a post for another day. It took a lot of courage. It left me with a script for a mood stabilizer and more confused than ever. To find clarity, I am blogging. I am searching for what it means for me to be a sexy mom, a loving wife, a hot smart girl, a nice person who is mean sometimes, a good girl who has a dark side. All at once.

Christi, Somewhat Objectively

~ Geoff ~ 1 Comment

Dark wavy brown hair.  Green eyes.  Smooth skin.  Soft lips, and a smile that lights up a room.  Nice curves, perfectly sized B-cup breasts, and curves just right to grab and pull her in.

Average height, below average weight, and above average intellect.  Looks good in leggings, great in jeans, hot in a skirt and boots, and unbelievable in a dress and heels.  Knows what she wants.  Gets what she wants.

Geoff, objectively

~ Christi
Just below 6 feet tall. Light skin. Stick-straight, short medium brown hair. Blue eyes. 165 lbs. Long limbs, long fingers, long toes. Huge feet. Beautiful, full lips. Nice teeth. Strong arms and chest, but not ripped.  Jutting hips. Wide cheekbones, large nose, angular face. Strikingly handsome in a tuxedo or anything black.
Oh, and he wears a Stetson.