No One Likes A Bitter MILF

I feel something hardening inside me, and not in the good way. Having been through two breakups in fourteen months, not to mention one more with a best friend of over a decade, it’s getting more and more challenging to find my optimism. Though as a Soviet-born Jew, even before the crippling bouts of clinical depression, I haven’t exactly been known for optimism.

If falling in love were a sport, I’d be in the Hall of Fame. I’m an enthusiastic player, and will go for the gold even if the buzzer has already sounded and everyone else knows the game is already over. I wear my team colors with pride, and Ra Ra incessantly, probably boring the shit out of my non-athlete friends. When it comes to love I am all in, even once I’ve been fouled and benched, I’m still begging the coach to let me back in the game.

Except now that I’ve been sidelined by injury…

I feel like I never want to have sex again. Don’t get me wrong I’m very, very horny- and if my Internet Browser wasn’t set to Private you could easily see that. I’m like a guy that way- I like my porn, the dirtier the better and I have zero guilt about it. If I were Catholic, I would certainly be going to Hell.

My ethos has always been to encourage every woman I meet to have lots of sex. Like a slutty Joan of Arc I’ve rallied the troops to go into battle even when all seems lost. Married or not, I have always touted it as the panacea for all ills. “You should just fuck someone, you’ll feel better,” I’ve said, thousands of times, “If you leave it too long, you will just fall in love with the first guy you fuck.” (To my credit I’ve only ever encouraged wives to fuck their own husbands.)

Now I find myself wanting to neither fuck nor fall in love, I can barely even tolerate a hug from any dude over ten. The previously monotonous need of my children has become a source of light. Parenting is still monotonous as the fiery pit of Hell, but at least they’re not going to reject me. Or not until they’re teenagers, so I have maybe five more years to get some cuddles in, at least when their friends aren’t looking.

Even as a custodian to two burgeoning men, I don’t understand men anymore. Someone once told me that all they want is to “fuck ’em and make ’em a sandwich.” Except that sounds much more like what I want in a relationship, that is if it also entails watching me while I eat the sandwich to make sure I don’t choke, or at least giving me the Heimlich if I do.

Emotional support is a funny animal, and I don’t think men are taught how to do it. My women friends and I all emotionally support the shit out of each other- it’s just what we do. But try to get a guy to do it and he just grunts and turns on Netflix. I know I need to support myself blah blah blah, but right now I am just so disappointed. In myself, for not being able to make a once glorious marriage work out. In guys for their sadistic ability to kick me when I most need help. And in G-d for all the heartache in the world, and the pain, and the sickness… How is it fair and why is it necessary? And why is that fucking Kardashian chick still taking pictures of her ass in 2014? Isn’t that in itself a sign of the apocalypse?

Tomorrow morning I have to get up and make breakfast for my kids, who give almost no fucks about how I’m feeling, they will be hungry. And I will get up, and pack their lunch, and drive them to school and try not to let them see how futile I believe this whole life enterprise to be. And the saddest thing about all of this, is that for this bravura performance, filled with vulnerability, grit and fake joy, I won’t even get a Golden Globe…

3 comments

  1. Well-said. For the record, and speaking for myself, I believe your feelings on the matter, and your message is as uni-sex as it is universal—sometimes, we’re just f-n over it … for a while.
    ~Christopher

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