Captivity, Childbirth and God

My phone whistles and it’s The Farmer.

F- Are you still able to go to lunch or is it too late?

I’d just eaten lunch and am painfully exhausted after shoveling a metric ton of snow, three times, only getting 3 1/2 hours of sleep and an Insanity workout in. I’m tired, sexually frustrated to the point I can’t write and stressed to the point of snapping like dry kindling. I don’t look fantastic and am not in a great mood. However… I need some positive attention and I have the best time with the Farmer. He really likes me, in a respectful, hands-off sort of way. I’m not sure what to think about it. Date #3 is still ending in a chaste hug.

food

J- See you there!

I left work and spent the afternoon laughing with a delightfully handsome, successful man who is armed to the teeth and loves being present in every way, shape or form. He’s a reallllllllly good human. He volunteers in class, and teaches Sunday school. He personally thanks the waiter every time. He’s a good tipper. He cares about his effect on everyone around him, not just the people that matter to him or who can do something for him.

That is so damn refreshing, I can hardly put it into words.

and then he speaks.

F- Wow. You’re amazing. I don’t mean that in a generic sense, but in the way that I want you to teach me some of the really cool things you know.

J- Umm…

F- I mean no disrespect.

None taken. He’s a successful man with a plan and I’m awkward. He’s been freshly manicured and the beard has been shaped into a much less threatening profile. I’m thinking that maybe I should invite him to a movie so he can hold my hand. This man is redefining what it means to be a gentleman.

Then the real bomb drops. He mentions how old he was when his first child was born, and he’s told me their ages before…. so…it hits me like a truck.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

He’s 29 years old. Born in the 90’s, good grief. A friend and I had tried to narrow it down, but we were thinking mid to late thirties. 36ish.

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Not even 30? I don’t know if I want to even consider that. 29 and done having babies isn’t so bad though. THAT, I can get behind.

Thirteen years younger than me. Good grief that’s scary. I’m stunned silent in my head and he’s talking about tattoos when he unbuttons his jacket and pulls an arm out.

Y’all. It’s a VERY nice arm, with incredible tattoos. I noticed the arm, but the tattoos were what made me sit up in my chair.

J- WOW. Those are unreal.

F- Yeah. I’m overdue for a new one, do you know anyone local that you love?

If it’s one thing I know, it’s where NOT to go. My beloved Miss Botany has the best tattoos I’ve seen before his, and I know her guy is the only one to go to. I shoot her a quick message and she responds. I tell him and he’s already met the guy. He’s serious, he’s doing his research and not willing to go to anyone sub-par… which means waiting indefinitely, as I’ve been doing.

This guy is awfully well rounded and so incredibly nice.

J- So what now? You’ve been on the fast track apparently. Marriage, done. Kids, done. Job, done. Relocation, done. Farm, done. Are you planning on hiking Everest?

F- I’d love to get married, have more kids, grow in faith and be happy.

Uh… I like being happy?

Welcome to dating.

Just when you think that maaaaaaaaaaaaybe this could be really cool, he drops captivity, childbirth and God on the table. My face must reflect my abject horror, because he starts laughing.

F- I will clarify if you’ll promise to breathe. I believe in marriage and know what not to do. I’m just not a player, I’m a husband. Teaching Sunday school has made me want to take a dozen kids home every week, and sometimes I do. So I’d like to adopt a bunch of kids who don’t have anyone else. I don’t need more babies, but I love them and would take one too. I have four neighbor kids that come to my house after school until their parents get home from work. The more the merrier in my book.

I’ve never heard a man speak like this. I’ve never met a man who loved fatherhood, more. That’s incredibly beautiful, but at the same time… I’ve been a mother for 24 years and am raising the baby, alone. I’m not really motivated to start adopting more.

AT ALL.

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Also church on Sunday for 5 hours will never happen. Ever. Not if the Earth caught on fire and Jesus himself came walking out of the flames. Nope. I’m staying home to be lazy on the last day of existence. Even if it costs me a halo. I work all week and the Dumpling and I have to be pried out of the house with a crowbar on the weekend. God understands.

Let’s not forget that captivity bomb. Marriage. I have absolutely NO intention of ever getting married again. I know the time and hassle of a divorce. I am still fighting to get my maiden name back and I’ve been divorced for twice as long as we were married. I want someone to want to be with me because we’re happy, not because we signed a legal contract.

That’s the kind of love I want.

I’m more playmate than playpen….more stilettos than Sunday school. I’m an incredible partner to have, but I want a man that looks at me like I’m a snack, not a nanny. I’ve done my time growing a family and between the farmer and I, we have 8 children. That’s a huge table.

That is a devastating amount of laundry…. and no man is that cute.

captivity

 

Tension

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It’s impossible to ignore the crackling tinder fire that ignites whenever he is around. I’ve done everything I could think of to scrub him from every facet of my daily thoughts, but deep down…. I’m annoyed by all this frustration. Dating other people isn’t working. The temperature continues to climb and I couldn’t force myself to avoid him with a billion dollar bribe.

I can ignore how warm his hands are. Lots of people have warm hands and I realize that this is an irrational reaction to something completely normal. When you’re craving a specific set of digits, any temperature they greet you with will be just right.

I hold my breath when I’m close to him. I can’t be haunted by how good he smells. I’m already haunted by enough of his details. I still catch myself leaning in close to him instinctively because he smells fucking amazing.

For the record… it’s soap. Motherfucking soap. This is what happens when you have a physical need for a man. You get hot and bothered by a basic bar of Dial.

I avoid his chest like my life depends on it, because it does. We all have our breaking points and that’s mine. There’s something so purely masculine about him that I just die a little as I talk myself down from climbing right into his lap.

J- Don’t smell it. Don’t touch it. Don’t even look at it. Think of that man like he’s a trillion calories wrapped in a billion more. You can’t afford him. Yes, it would satisfy a lot, but it’d create an ocean of cravings and you just barely avoided drowning the last time.

Yep… that’s what it’s come to. Pep talks with myself because I’m short on willpower and chock full of desire. Completely platonic things, set me on fire. He grins at me and it’s like a kick in the damn ovaries.

Forgive my french, but I’m absolutely fucked.

Whilst being completely celibate…. of all the injustice.

Send help. 🙂