Somewhere deep down, I think doing the deed regularly would help matters… bring us closer… (even if there is a baby foot nestled in my ribcage the whole time and the very act itself has devolved into a slapstick comedy of errors), but I can’t even come close to summoning the interest. Let’s face it, I can’t catch my breath at night and when I wake in the morning, my bones ache courtesy of relaxin. Dash has an uncanny ability for telling exactly when I’m falling off to sleep, taking it as his cue to practice for a 2024 run at gold in floor exercise and I’m back to peeing at least three times a night, only now, my bladder (too compressed to fully function) has about all the power of a prune (and is likely about that size). With that in mind, how am I supposed to tolerate (nevermind actually enjoy) what would sadly amount to further prodding–by a person twice my size? Did I mention the stabbing pains in my hinterlands? To think, I used to complain about getting a Brazilian!

Indeed (and however ironically, considering how we got here), I am NOT in my sexual prime. And I’m terrified I won’t return there for some time… two things that only serve to deepen my despair. Where has Stephanie gone? And will somebody put her back when this whole thing is over?

As if being in total discomfort and existential crisis 24/7 isn’t enough (we won’t even get into the economy, the job market, the reality that I may be forced into de-facto stay at home motherhood at a big cost to my lifestyle… and ego), I still resent J for not trying to get it on with me… despite the fact that I know he’s just being courteous! (Besides, who in their right mind would want to f*@k me right now in the first place?) I’m aware that I’m sending mixed messages… and the code is so complex, I can’t even decipher it myself!

Finally, add to this whole debacle that I have about this much energy and even less tolerance for the myriad of ridiculous things that annoy me and one thing is clear. Six weeks into my marriage, I am not the best wife. And I hate myself for it. What’s even worse is that I have no idea what to do about it… except, that is, to wait, which is inordinately difficult for someone with my proactive personality type. Patience is not my virtue, but I know I’ve got to find some way to implore it… and that way cannot involve Xanax, Ambien or any worthwhile amount of red wine. Don’t French babies drink while in utero? Argh!!!

Luckily, the one and only thing I know I can truly count on at the moment is that this too, shall pass. Just don’t remind me of that fact because I’ll be honest… your use of bad cliches (in reference to my situation… or anything else for that matter) will definitely piss me off.