A shared secret of a dark reality. Depression, its triggers, and one women’s inability to cope with January, mental health, financial woes, life’s challenges and the sharp jab of self-doubt.
Seriously, in a percentage, how much does romance matter?
Importance of Sex – pixteller
Health Trifecta
At the very least we need food, water, and sleep to survive. When a cold or flu take hold, these three components are essential in restoring our health and strength. A relationship is very much the same. As its own life force, it too has requirements to exist. These crucial elements ought to be thoroughly evaluated and weighed when a relationship is in need of a checkup.
Health 2 Trifecta
Experts cannot agree on the perfect balance of food, water, and sleep to remain healthy. This is because it varies among people. Age and activity level are both significant factors that help determine an individual’s perfect balance. Such conditions have the same effect on one’s relationship. The balance continues to be the catalyst for harmony.
Communication, shared priorities, and sex, these are the essentials of a relationship.
That is not to say that they are the only components. Family, finances, free time, future plans along with a slew of factors that don’t start with ‘F’ contribute to the overall wellness of your bond. But if your relationship has come down with a cold; communication, shared priorities, and sex are the foundation. Everything else can melt away.
Sex is not only a primal need but it is also an expression of love, togetherness and intimacy that can be matched with no other.
This is not to rate the quality or quantity of your physical relationship. Follow the seduction links if you need help with that. This is a way to gauge the importance of sex to your relationship.
Understand that this is an ever changing number. Commonly, there is a very strong co-relation between quantity and importance. Those who feel that they aren’t ‘getting any’ or complain that is comes about too rarely, will often put a greater importance on sex in the relationship.
Consider a long distance relationship or when someone in the couple travels; the prolonged union is often extremely sexually charged. Why? Because sex is the only component that cannot be satisfied across the distance. Phone sex is a small consolation, a temporary substitute – but I encourage THAT all the same.
Sex Health Trifecta
Another example would be make-up sex. Far from boring, this particular form of love making is known to be fiery and explosive. Why? Because too much communication about shared priorities has squeezed out or neglected the sex element. Like any starved flame – it flares at the slightest hint of oxygen.
The point is, every couple will find harmony in their relationship using a different ratio depending on where their relationship stands. All that matters is that both parties agree on that number.
If you have just had a very ‘active’ weekend away, you should find that sex carries less weight on the importance counter- for a little while anyway. A new relationship usually has a very high necessity for sex as there is no foundation for communication or shared priorities. Once the couple has established a sense of a history, the other components have had an opportunity to develop. It is then that their numbers begin to shift.
Here’s the catch. Happiness is achieved when both people agree on the numbers. In order to find that balance, the couple must communicate and establish their shared priorities to determine where sex lies in their pie chart.
Of course, it is juvenile and immature. Not talking to someone is no way to behave.
Is it?
Never go to bed angry?
Who said that? Clearly, they have never argued with me or anyone to whom I have ever disagreed. There would be no sleeping if we were to hash it out before going to bed. No, thank you.
I would consider my heated form of communication passionate, however, my husband would call it an ugly display of rage. Either way, when I finally do lose my temper, it can be verbally explosive. Please do not confuse this with being abusive. I have a double bladed tongue that mercilessly jabs back in quick concessions when provoked. Depending on how long I have been holding my tongue and how deep my teeth have had to sink in determines how relevant, ancient, and fair the blows are once I have unleashed my thoughts through words. It isn’t pretty and contrary to the belief of those in the path of my wrath, I am not proud of myself nor do I gain any satisfaction in winning an argument in this way. Once the dust settles, there is no way around it, I have said hurtful things to someone I love and care about. It does not matter if what I have said is true. The manner in which I have expressed these thoughts is inexcusable and unnecessary. What is said can never be taken back and is not easily forgiven.
Can your rage sometimes lead to a verbal backlash? If so, then you know what I am talking about. It is actually better to go to bed angry than to voice the words roiling in your head. Stepping back and taking a breath allows you time to calmly check your anger and frustration into a reasonable, respectful argument. This approach is better for everyone. It has taken many years, countless apologies, and some lost relationships for me to learn this lesson.
Do not knock the silent treatment. It has its own purpose, within reason. However, not talking to someone is the easy part. Breaking the silence once the treatment has been doled out, is the pride swallowing, ego crushing challenge. This is where I fail. When I am giving my husband the cold shoulder and I drag it out, everything begins to break down. We stop eating at the table and start sleeping separately. There is no disagreement from me when he takes a pillow and blanket to the couch to watch the game nor does he stop me from occupying the spare room during this award times. We actually convince ourselves that the kids are none the wiser when we blame the separate sleeping on daddy’s snoring.
silent treatment
When you wear your stubborn streaks like a coat of armor, don’t expect it to be comfortable.
Now, we know better.
When we are no longer sharing a table or bed our communication is severed and our marriage is ultimately in trouble.
Do not get me wrong, I am still a silent treatment kind of girl. To some, it makes no sense. It seems immature and a waste of time. It must be understood, that it is out of maturity and self-awareness that I stay silent. I know that my words can cut deep and leave marks that no apology can erase. It is out of kindness and necessary restraint that I use silence. I go to bed angry so that I can wake up clear headed and ready to communicate fairly without wavering topic or reaching back in time beyond reasonable limits. But now I know the sooner we meet the sooner we can talk, heal, learn, and grow with one another. The onus to break the silence is on me; the one whom initially cut off communication.
Ah, the apology without actually saying I’m sorry. Because it’s not really an apology, it’s a declaration of not being mad anymore. It doesn’t even mean that I am ready to talk about ‘it.’ Only willing to start from here.
silent treatment
I do this by pulling two wine glasses out of the cupboard and leaving them out with a bottle of Cabernet. I am not presumptuous enough to pour, for it is very likely that my husband is angry with me and not ready to sit and chat. So, it is up to him to fill the glasses and join me in a conversation. Then we can make up.
A wise man once said that a marriage needs only a table and bed.
Where do you eat? Sleep? Revisit the table and bed to help restore your relationship.
marriage tools
Communication is key!
This we know. But how and when can we sit and talk?
Consider courting. Most new couples relish going for dinner. We have conditioned ourselves to have our most intimate conversations while dining or entangled in bed. Sharing meals and pillow talk are essential to a successful relationship. When one or both are not being met, it is usually a true indication of trouble.
It was during a wedding ceremony that I experienced this enlightenment. My husband was an usher, and I sat alone in the pew listening to the minister. He began by gently poking fun at the young couple’s blissful obliviousness to their future struggles. This, of course, earned a chuckle or two from the more mature members of the congregation. In fact, I remember my husband finding my eyes to share a knowing glance.
At the time, we were secretly seeing a marriage counselor. So, we were no strangers to the struggles of which the minister spoke. Somehow, we managed to squeeze a few kid-free hours out of our already hectic weeks to see a therapist. After a month and a half of faithful sessions, many tried exercises, and countless dollars, the one thing we could agree on was that the therapy was not working. Yet, fifteen minutes into a wedding, I learned all I needed to know to recognize the markers of a troubled relationship. Who knew that advice came at the cost of a pedicure and an appliance from the bride and groom’s registry? Little did the new couple know that they had given us the greater gift.
Table – share a meal
I do not cook, and my second-hand table has been hurting to be refurbished for years.
That aside, ever since I realized the importance of the table, I consider it our meeting place as a family and as a couple. It is there that we share meals, talk about our day, play cards, drink wine, and pour over the weekly fliers.
At times, it is with great effort that we fight the urge to flop in front of the television with our plates on our laps. This we used to do all too often. Now, I understand that our meals are sacred. When we know beforehand that we will not be home for dinner, we try to outdo ourselves with brunch. And on those ‘eat in a hurry’ nights, my husband and I try to remain at the table and continue to connect while the kids rush to get ready for whatever extracurricular they have. This is just a simple concept made more difficult with the hustle and bustle of everyday lives. But it is important to find the time and worth it in the long run.
Table and bed – not TV
I seriously considered that minister’s words, and they all rang true. I do not regret divorcing my first husband, but I often reflect on how regularly we ate in front of the television and slept in separate beds. For the most part, we got along just fine. This happened because we had nothing to talk about. Perhaps, if I had understood the importance of the table and bed to communication; the cornerstone to any relationship, we never would have married.
Now, my greatest fault is that I am guilty of the silent treatment. When I am giving my husband the cold shoulder, everything breaks down. The first thing to go is sitting at the same table, which further fractures our connection. Then, one of us resigns to the couch or the spare bedroom, which physically severs our ability to communicate. By not sitting at the table or sharing a bed, we have annihilated any chance of coming together. Eventually, one of us will prepare dinner and purposefully set the table. When we meet there, we know not to discuss the tender issue at the crux of our argument. To sit at the table is a silent agreement to push past for the sake of a meal. There will be time enough to rehash the conflict once the dishwasher is on and the kids are in bed. Or not. Some arguments can pass without convincing the other person that you are right.
Pillow talk, however, needs no explanation. It is inherently intimate and not only because of its simplistic correlation to sex. We are at our most vulnerable when in bed. It is where we sleep, retreat to when we are unwell, make love, lounge naked, or wear pajamas not suitable for public display. Nowhere else are you as truly yourself than in bed. There, couples share everything and bear it all. Meet there.
Let it be said, a marriage needs only a table and bed.
Still not convinced? Then, consider the most popular advice given to couples undergoing a rough patch. The two of you need a weekend getaway, a vacation, a night out. This implies going out for dinner and getting a hotel room. Strip it down…
reconnect by sharing a meal and engaging in pillow talk.
First of all, make it happen. Be present. Turn off the television.
Even at the tender age of eleven, I could not climb the stairs from the basement to tell my parents what had happened. What is more upsetting is that I am uncertain to why. I may have been afraid of not being believed although, it is more likely that I feared being blamed. Instead of saying anything, I slipped soundlessly into a chair at the kitchen table to sit next to the middle brother, Wes. The only one in that house whom I trusted.
“Johnny tried to kiss you, didn’t he?”
Johnny was Wes’ older brother and this omission was in the form of a question. This startled me, but I could only nod. Wes was doing his homework and I sat stunned, scared and unmoving. Until, of course, his dad came in. This wiry man was my mother’s best friend’s husband and he shooed me away to the basement again.
“Wes doesn’t need any distraction during his studies.” His father had said.
The meager smile the boy gave me was meant as an apology. Wes knew what the basement would hold for me and didn’t tell.
Victim Blaming
Slowly, I descended the stairs in my fuzzy pink pajamas with purple feet and mitten-shaped pockets. There, Johnny was with his littlest brother, setting up a board game. On the floor at the opposite end of the coffee table seemed the safest place for me. So, I masked my reluctance and joined. How could I have known that from beneath the table his leg crossed the distance? Every time he tried cramming his foot into my crotch, I smacked it away. On the third try, he sent his little brother upstairs.
The words “don’t go” were stuck in my throat as I scrambled to my feet.
Before I knew what was happening, he had me pinned down on the couch and I can still remember is crushing weight. In my panicked frenzy, I somehow managed to get away. Straight up two flights of stairs, I ran clutching the waist of my pajama bottoms. I hid under the covers of where I would be sleeping that night; except, I didn’t sleep. I sobbed quietly, gripped by the fear that Johnny would try again. Luckily, he did not.
Memory is a funny thing. Somehow, for awhile I was able to get passed
Victim Blaming
that night at my parent’s friend’s house. There were a few years of blissful forgetfulness and denial. Until one day that memory came crashing back fully loaded with the fear of an eleven-year-old child.
In grade ten drama class, we were to perform self-written monologues. One of these performances was of an intimate account of a sexual assault from the point of view of the victim as if he were talking to his counselor. Everything he said bore into a wound I hadn’t known was there. The memory of my attack resurfaced and it distorted all that I knew and tainted every relationship I had. Resentment chewed away at me and left a predominate chip.
Mercifully, I never saw Johnny again. But, even now, thirty years later, on those rare occasions, his name is mentioned in casual conversation I stiffen and my stomach twists. That night will play over in my head and the agonizing self-deprecation begins.
I should have recognized the danger in the way he looked at me.
I should have declined the can of pop he offered me.
I should have kept my distance and not stood next to him when we were picking out a movie.
I should not have changed into my pajamas.
I should have…
I should have…
I should have…
I should have told someone.
No one blames the victim more than the victim blames themselves.
This needs to change! Why did I feel the need the justify how old I was or what I was wearing? Would I have been lesser of a victim if I had been eighteen, full figured and scantily dressed? The answer is NO! The end of victim blaming starts with victims and potential victims. Why didn’t I tell?
A victim is …a victim is… A VICTIM.
Johnny was fourteen when he attacked me. I worry that I may have encouraged his warped approach to woman and sex by not telling. I may have been able to stop him. The truth is, I really don’t know. I bolted and did everything in my power to ignore and avoid him. There is no way of knowing how many girls and woman he has victimized over the years. This thought haunts me.
Now I have a daughter of my own and I struggle with how to protect her without having to tell her of the many threats that may surround her. I want her to be aware without being jaded. I want her to be safe without losing her innocence or free spirit. More importantly, I want her to always talk to me.
Victim blaming must end
I resent having to raise my daughter to be cautious of predators. Programming women to scrutinize their own actions as a way of preventing someone from wronging them is fundamentally backward and socially corrupt. The blame falls solely on the offender.
Thirty is the new twenty! Who has not heard this, especially if the big 3-0 is on the horizon or if you careened by it in the last fifteen years? Either way, this growing delusional trend allows us to prolong maturing, postpone responsibility, and provides us with an excuse to remain noncommittal about life decisions.
‘It is a welcome suspension of time and a 30 pound load of crap!’
When I first started dating my now husband, I asked him, “When do you see yourself as a dad?” At the ripe age of 33, his answer was, “Maybe in 3 to 5 years.” Easy for him to say, but that is another blog.
So, I let it go. A few years later, I managed to obtain some rock solid commitment in the form of a diamond but not a date. Then, I waited and asked again. “When do you see yourself being a father?” What was his answer? Brace yourself. “Oh, I don’t know. In 3 to 5 years.”
I reminded him that he gave me that same answer 3 years ago. Did that mean he meant within the next 24 months? Or did the last 36 months not count? It’s not that I was in a hurry to have a baby. I was growing increasingly frustrated with…
“the wide spread aloofness among today’s young adults.”
Sadly, this is a group of which I was a member. This new relaxed attitude that time no longer matters irked the planner within me. It is what I started referring to as
…Thirty Something Someday Syndrome.
young adults
It is the right to put off big decisions and continue floundering around like an experienced teenager indefinitely. And to some extent, there are a lot of benefits.
Don’t rush to get out of school; Once you start working you will be working the rest of your life and you are less likely to return to class if you take a break.
Hold off from marrying your high school sweetheart. If you are meant to be, then you will still be together in 5 years. If not, you won’t have to be the ugly half of that divorce statistic and save yourself a boat load of legal fees and heartache.
Travel before settling down. You don’t need money to see the world, you need youth and imagination.
These cautionary words that encourage the delay of life altering choices are sound and make sense… for people under thirty.
Thirty something someday syndrome – suspended time
To those, over thirty, who have used this advice as…
“a crutch to dodge having to make big decisions and put off growing up”
…that need to listen up.
Now, I have yet to figure out how one develops a case of Thirty Something Someday Syndrome. It could be based solely on an acute juvenile immaturity that lingers like a drunken buzz from your twenties. It could also be a genuine unawareness of age based expectations. If the latter is true, then maybe it was instilled within
Thirty something someday syndrome
us by our parents whom perhaps felt rushed to become adults by being thrown into careers, marriage, or parenting in their early twenties. Unfortunately, by not setting some age related goals, ideals, and responsibility they have (in some cases) stunted the growth of their own children. The fact that the number of thirty something children still living in their parent’s basement is on the increase kind of proves this point.
Gone are the days that one is expected to get married right out of high school. The term ‘cougar’ has replaced ‘spinster’ and a new mom at forty is more common than one at twenty-two. This is progress. Approaching forty without having to make one major decision in your life is not cutting edge independence – you are simply dragging your feet.
Do you suffer from Thirty Something Someday Syndrome?
Thirty something someday syndrome – time is slipping
If so, time to move out, put a ring on it, or start shopping for strollers. Do whatever it is that you are afraid of doing and maybe, you might just become a real life adult. Cease the day! Or, before you know it you will be closer to fifty than thirty and life will have passed you by.
It is a powerful sense that can trigger nostalgia or even deja vu. I once told that if I wore a certain perfume on a romantic getaway or my honeymoon than I could return to that memory easily later by just wearing that scent. I tried this. It worked, but I have since realized that specific smells are more difficult to place than generic ones. The cotton vanilla fragrance I put on while in Punta Cana five years ago doesn’t have nearly the effect that my suntan lotion has.
Last winter, I ran out of body moisturiser and applied the after sun lotion I use in the summer. Instantly, I was taken back to a time of sun and heat. On another occasion I changed my shampoo. I had not realized that it was the brand I used when my husband and I first dated until he buried his nose in my hair and gave me ‘that look.’
Do not under estimate the power of scent.
Use it to your benefit.
While getting ready for a romantic evening perhaps dab on that perfume at the back of the shelf collecting dust. Or ditch the perfume and rub on baby oil or suntan lotion. Close your eyes and breathe in its scent. Where does your mind take you? A place? A time? If you are reminded of fun, youth and freedom you have found your scent for the night. Don’t over do it by putting on too much or by applying it too often. It will loose its effect.
When ever I smell aerosol hairspray, I am reminded of my early twenties and going out dancing. I feel like an episode of Sex in the City and I am instantly in the mood for a little fun. My husband is more than happy to hitch a ride on that little buzz of nostalgia.
Self-seduce with scent
What I am saying is that smell is the unassuming sense that is easily forgotten until someone is cooking fish. Then see how quickly it is able to cripple a romantic mood. If used correctly, you can enhance your own arousal by tapping into past romantic moments to create new ones.
What did your first apartment smell like? Did you use potpourri, incense or candles? Did you use to wear baby oil, body spray or fruit scented shampoo? It is that simple.
There are smells that turn you on. Find them.
Consider the most erotic time of your life. When you feel sexy, sensual and aroused. What did it smell like?
Beware of this power. Unpleasant odours can just as easily have an adverse effect.
A soft tongue hides behind luscious lips and slick pearly whites. Our mouths are essential to the art of seduction and love making. Kisses after-all are at the heart of all human affection.
Beyond the physical.
There are two types of taste.
Self-seduce with taste
The first is the most recognized. It is why cooking can also be an art of seduction. Having exquisite flavours burst in your mouth is one of life’s most enjoyable sensations. Food, itself can be an aphrodisiac.
I want to focus on the second type; the subconsciousness of taste. Just as scent has the power to trigger nostalgia,
taste has the little-known power to alter mood.
Tastes fun
I associate peanut butter with my childhood. As an adult, I very rarely eat it, however, when I find myself surly or sullen, I will scoop a spoonful right out of the jar into my mouth. To me, I no longer savour the thick buttery flavour but, within a half-hour, my mood is lighter. I barely notice the transformation, unlike scent it is not instantaneous. It is more like taking an aspirin for a headache. After a few minutes, I notice that I feel better. It is as if my mind associates the taste of peanut butter with a calmer, less worrisome time and reverts back to then.
Taste Nostalgia
This phenomenon can help set the tone for romance too. Do pina coladas taste like paradise, barbecue taste like summer or hot cider taste like Christmas? It doesn’t have to be your favourite flavour, it just needs to be a taste you associate with a pleasurable mood. Chicken noodle soup may comfort you and mint chocolate chip ice cream may leave you jubilant.
Not convinced? Consider tequila. If even the thought of this murky liquid causes your stomach to roil that is because you probably had a drunken tequila night that ended badly. The brain remembers and has since rejected the taste of (and possibly the sound of the word) tequila. On the other hand, if you are grinning with the thought of licking, shooting, and sucking…well, then cheers. But I would bet you know someone who would groan or gag at the same thought.
Still not convinced? One word.
Chocolate.
Self-Seduce with taste
This heavenly creamy flavour has so many benefits and for the purpose of this article, it is commonly associated with childhood, holidays and love. No wonder women (and men) crave it and indulge in it because it holds the power to alter your mood. Better than any drug.
Please practice moderation with the consumption of any mood altering substance.
Tastes like childhood
Before a night of romance, especially if the weather has taken its toll, put your subconscious taste buds to the test. Even if your plans include an evening of strawberries, wine, lobster and stuffed chicken; consider sneaking in an abstract appetizer or cocktail. It could boost your mood and widen the gates to the path of romance, seduction, and passion.
This is an example of simple mind over matter. Allow your sense of taste to alter your mood to one of arousal.
I stash a tub of gummy bears in the car and a six pack of Corona in the fridge just in case we happen upon a night with the unexpected promise of romance. I trust in the flavours to nudge my mood to ensure my ultimate pleasure.
A special thanks to Emily Wright for letting me post here on your website. Thanks Em.
Sex Drugs & Working Moms: This Victoria Has No Secrets
It was Valentine’s Day, four years ago, and I was expected to step out of my powder room donning Victoria Secret’s newest super sexy show stopper. The evening was meant to be oh so romantic.
Lit only by the glow of our fireplace, my love handed me the suspiciously large gift bag with excitement and anticipation dancing in his eyes. I tried to pull my libido from its hibernation to match his enthusiasm,
…but I am a Canadian girl and it was February.
This means I was still carrying my post holiday weight, nothing below my collar had seen the sun since September, and I was sporting homegrown insulation. In short, I was doughy, pastey, and hairy. Yes, I said it.
There I was under the harsh lighting of my bathroom unveiling the wonder that was my Valentine’s Day gift. You know the outfit; every man’s fantasy. A lacy full-bodice number with reinforcement enough the hold cleavage at an unnatural altitude, thigh high stockings and garters of course. By the time I presented myself, I was wild eyed, red faced and completely dishevelled. One might be flattered that their husband bought a size too small. I, on the other hand, know my hubby all too well. In his mad dash to the store to meet Hallmark’s Valentine’s Day expectations, he picked the sales clerk who looked most like me or who was closest to him in the store and asked her her size.
Don’t get me wrong, the black ensemble was beautiful with its iron boning, 72 hook and eyes lining the back and impossibly tiny claps for the garter belt to be fastened just below the butt cheeks. I am sure it looked amazing on the porcelain manikin. The headless, armless figure also had the advantage of not having flesh or flab to hinder the shape. More importantly, the manikin had assistance strapping the sucker on without the pesky inconvenience of having to breathe.
I am sorry, when Valentine’s day is on a Tuesday night, a school night,
…you are just happy to get the kids in bed early enough to share a bottle of wine, whisper some sweet nothings, take top, and go to bed.
Instead, there I was with my breasts up my nose, tugging and reefing on the least agreeable fabric known to man. Imagine 72 tiny curls of wire that need to slip into loops of thread that run down your spine. The only way to fasten every delicate hook was to put the corset on backwards. I did mention that it was too small, right? I remember looking in the mirror and seeing the elegantly laced breast cups sitting on my back as I wrestled and wiggled trying to twist it into place. At one point, my husband asked if I was okay because I had spun myself into the vanity so violently that it was a wonder I didn’t wake the kids. Once the death trap was facing the correct way, I was an enraged, unlikely contortionist, who still needed to fasten the garter straps. I was bound so tightly that my breaths were short and sharp. How the hell was I going to bend at the waist to locate the tiny gold clasps, let alone secure my nylons to them?
Somehow I managed to get it on, not without sacrificing skin and my air supply – I got it on. My gliding to the bed wasn’t exactly by choice as the stockings, again too small, limited my movement. I did reign in my frustration, discouragement, and overall self-loathing for the sake of the occasion. When my husband began to release me from my torture chamber, I was mixed with relief and outrage.
What was it all for? Better yet, who was it all for?
Afterwards, when he was still giddy with the memory of his gift, he started making birthday and anniversary requests. There must have been something in my expression that said divorce or homicide because he abruptly stopped talking. I haven’t gotten lingerie for Valentine’s Day since.
Happy Valentine’s Day!!
Look for more advice, anecdotes, and steamy stories to be posted in the weeks to come.
