This may seem like a contradictory article for a blog titled as mine is. However, to paraphrase my favorite yogi*, “yes, I am human” (pronounced in a strained robot voice). I wish I had a gif of that…it’s probably my most repeated Adriene phrase, because it’s so real. And that’s what this is about — getting real with myself, and whomever reads this, too.
We all have our passions and interests. Yes, I’m interested in sex. When I’m my best self, I love to talk about sex — really talk about it, analyze it, ponder it, and then, have it! However, I’m not always my best self. Sometimes I straight up lose myself, and when that happens, I lose my interest in all things sex, too.
Sometimes I straight up lose myself, and when that happens, I lose my interest in all things sex, too.
It’s a dark place that I go to when I lose myself. It feels hopeless and mundane, stagnant and murky. I feel underwater, drowning with the weight of my worries, unable to focus on the seemingly simple task of lifting them off of me, one by one. These anxieties mix and mingle together in my mind, weaving a quilt that pushes me deep inside myself. These are the days that I can’t be into sex; I’m not even into myself.
I don’t always see it coming. I can be fine, and then I’m not. I’ve wondered if I’m bipolar at times, and to be honest with you, I’m not ruling that out. And then, I think…maybe I’m just human. Maybe this is just me, figuring out another piece of my own puzzle.
Jack and I love the Myers Briggs Personality Test. We took the test years ago, and were so impressed with how spot-on our results were that we saved the tests in our email, not willing to let those descriptions of ourselves go. Then life went on. Years later, I can reflect on how we’ve evolved as we’ve grown into middle age. We discovered the joy that a life of wellness can bring; we discovered self help, yoga, Jordan Peterson, cannabis, and Love and Logic parenting. We stopped eating sugar and adopted a rescue dog . Our family situation has endured too many dramas and traumas, but we’ve also celebrated life and love, relishing in old family rituals and establishing new traditions within our own busy household.
When we found ourselves with extra time due to the first COVID lockdown in our state, we revisited our Myers Briggs results and started to investigate further. I’m not just talking about Internet research. I’m talking about deep reflection and analysis of the souls that inhabit our bodies.
Jack is the Golden Retriever of personality types. He’s the cruise ship director of our home, optimistically making too many fun plans to ever possibly fit into one day. He’s quick to anger, but also quick to compliment. To say he judges everyone would sound harsh; in reality, he analyzes every part of everyone, taking note of every last detail to quickly form his perception of their character, calculating their sincerity and thus their value in his life. Even when he knows that someone isn’t worth a lick, he’s easily hurt when they offend or betray him. Everyone I know describes Jack as “loud.” You always know what he’s thinking because he always tells you. He tells everyone everything; his stream of thought comes out in an incessant chatter.
It’s so rare for Jack to be miserable that when he is, I know that something is seriously wrong. I know that he’s underwater with his own thoughts and emotions, and I anxiously investigate him until we can diagnose the problem and find a cure. Months ago, he made a career change, and while it was great at first, things quickly went downhill as he settled into the mundane reality of the new job. When your Golden Retriever is ill, you act quick to restore the household to its happy glory. So, while most people may have seen his immediate resignation as a rash decision, I’d much prefer to be a little less monetarily well-off than lose the heart and soul of my home.
My personality type is the rarest that there is, which perhaps explains why I often feel so alone and so strange even while constantly surrounded by so many people
They say opposites attract, and knowing Jack and I, I agree that it must be true. If he’s a Golden, I’m a sullen housecat, hiding under the bed until it’s time for the next meal. My personality type is the rarest that there is, which perhaps explains why I often feel so alone and so strange even while constantly surrounded by so many people. I avoid people when I can, preferring solitude but knowing that my wellbeing does rely on my relationships with others. Jack is like that one special dog that I don’t mind cuddling up with for a nap. But I need my space, too, and when I don’t get it, I become sulky, withdrawn, and defiant. I begin to drown, and my interests, most notably my interest in sex, slip away.
I can’t always immediately tell when I’ve had enough. It’s not always clear to me what brings on my yearning for solitude and reflection. It’s quite likely that I get distracted by everything else in my life, like someone who is too busy to notice that they’re hungry until, suddenly, they’re starving, hangry at the world.
I begin to notice it most when I’m a clean slate, as my day is just beginning to unfold. I’ve never considered myself a morning person, but perhaps I’m skewing my data because I’ve been with Jack for so long now — all of my adult life. Perhaps I’m just not a morning person on Jack’s terms.
On our best days together, he stays in bed with me for awhile as we wake up slowly, a new day’s arousal building inside him. He itches my back just so and provides me with warmth and affection before we make our bed together. We don’t often have sex in the mornings, but when we do, it’s an orgasm for only him, and the benefit of complete connection with another soul, for me.
But too often, there’s not time for me to wake up so luxuriously. Most days, when our alarm goes off, Jack jumps out of bed. He pokes at me, prodding me until I get up. I’d prefer to lay in bed, gather my thoughts, and stretch my body one muscle at a time as I ponder myself before putting thought into action for the day. I have to gather up every shred of willpower that I have and get out of bed within minutes of the alarm going off. I’ve learned to turn on a light and stare at a bright cell phone screen, checking the weather for the day, to trick my mind into alertness.
As I’m making the bed with Jack, my mind is still quiet, but Jack is already babbling, complimenting my naked body, relaying his everlasting arousal even though we likely had intercourse the night — just hours — before. He gropes me as I walk to my closet, groans when I put on my robe and slippers, and goes down to the kitchen to quell his other appetite while I use the bathroom. It’s the first solitary escape that I can manage each day.
I join him in the kitchen after ten minutes or so, but I’m not ready for him yet. He chatters; when I don’t eagerly respond to him he often questions if I’m in a mood or PMSing. He gently mocks me for not being a morning person, and I retreat further into myself, spending all my energy blocking out the external stimuli. Finally, nature calls him into the bathroom and I begin to group my thoughts for the day while drinking coffee and perusing the day’s news. Once the clock nears my deadline, I muster up the strength to exercise. I run on the treadmill while watching a show or a movie; the best cinema has me overwhelmed with emotion, and I wheeze as I run in tears. I stare at myself in our gym mirrors while I lift weights, letting Jillian Michael’s positive affirmations take root in my mind. Many days, this is enough to wake me back up to my best self, this combination of intense exercise and meaningful thoughts. I can emerge upstairs as the inspired, energetic, soulful woman that my husband fell in love with.
It’s not hard to get lost during a pandemic, in lockdown, surrounded by the people that you love most in the world. I want the best for them all; I worry…
Until, suddenly, I remember. I remember what I need. I remember who I am.
Other days, I need more. Take now. It’s not hard to get lost during a pandemic, in lockdown, surrounded by the people that you love most in the world. I want the best for them all; I worry about the kids’ education, emotions, and socialization. I worry about their futures, and I worry that I’m not doing enough to make their lives as bright and wonderful as they deserve for life to be. I worry that I’m not enough for my husband, that when I open my mouth it’s all criticisms and not enough love. I worry about money. I worry about my body. I worry about my talent and my sudden lack of motivation. I worry about what others think of me. I worry that I won’t get it all done. I worry that I’m failing myself. Am I throwing away my one shot, my one life? What if this is all there is? I drown, and my struggling only pulls me deeper underwater.
Until, suddenly, I remember. I remember what I need. I remember who I am.
I’m an introvert. I need time alone to reflect, to think deeply. My thoughts get tangled, but I am strong, and I can find the right thread to follow through the maze. Then, one by one, I untangle.
I acknowledge my annoyance with my husband and kids. Yes, they bother me with their chatting, their whining, their interruptions, their noise. They worry me with the fears that they plant within me, with the fears of knowing that one day they won’t be here with me. But I love them so much, and I am so grateful for my moments with them. I need to find myself again, not just for me, but for them.
I’m a mystery to most people, myself included. I like it that way about 90% of the time. I like the journey of discovering myself and my potential, just as, on my best days, I love pondering the wonders of the universe and our existence. I like to fly under the radar, just taking in what I see, letting Jack do the talking while I do the thinking. I like to write, and through writing I discover more. I like being the girl that’s quiet and thoughtful, sharing only my best, most well-crafted thoughts aloud. But, maybe 10% of the time, I want to be seen. I want things to make sense. I want to be wild, loud, and understood. I want to get out of my shell and have rip-roaring sex with someone that I love and trust.
So I do yoga. I allow myself to slow down and to meditate. I stretch. I play piano. I take walks, alone, with my dog, and I lift my head up to let the sun shine (briefly) on my sunburn-prone face. I inhale. I exhale. I cry. I write. I find myself, again. And, in the end, it feels…amazing.
It’s fully possible for me to have sex when I’m lost. I can even find myself again during sex, sometimes. I can have a glass or two of wine and forget my troubles, focusing on pure pleasure and wild exhilaration. It can be quite good, even. But it’s not the best, because I’m not my best.
At my best, I’m grounded. I allow and honor those moments of solitude throughout the day where I can go deep underwater in my thoughts, then emerge, inhaling the crisp air with the elation of inspiration. Then, I plant my feet on the ground, making plans before putting one foot in front of the other, letting my life occur in what is now a series of online classes, meals and kitchen cleanup, and then, finally, sex before bed. I enjoy the maniacal laughter of my children as they create silly games with each other in another room, catching my husband’s eye as he checks out my yoga pants. I flirt. I do my hair and makeup with a light hand. I eat a balanced diet but drink too much coffee. I embrace the process of writing and rejoice in the formation of my thoughts and ideas. I listen to music. I allow myself to get turned on by life.
And, then, I am interested in sex.
*Shoutout to Adriene Mischler. You’ve brought so much good into my life. Namaste.
