You're So Vain, You Probably Think This Post Is About You

Don't you?

Having revealed myself as a jealous insane woman of a certain age, I mentioned sadly to Mr. Curry, my mouth full of Subway, I'm really vain, honey. He looked at me and laughed, said his tag line to me- You are occasionally ridiculous. Of course he knows I'm vain. This is the same man that listened to me debate out loud whether or not another baby was really worth the possibility of ruining my incredible luck with pregnancy so far: no stretch marks, no sagging skin or breasts, no cave like vagina, no constant urine drip, no irascible fat. It wasn't a true inner debate, but the worries, the resistance was real.

Well. I am the kind that isn't vain until I am not in control over my body and face ( which really is all the time, but don't tell me ). I work out, lift weights, eat healthy organic foods to my heart's content and crappy processed food in moderation, wear a bra almost 24-7 ( please no lectures on breast cancer risk- I am sure the four years of nursing and lifetime of eating healthy and exercising will balance ) wear head to toe day to day sunblock and take good care of my skin. With these efforts, I go through my days mostly unthinking of my face and body, only the calm awareness of gratitude I have for a healthy body. Until something happens. Something like a cannon ball being inserted into my abdomen and two times the normal fluid levels swell up my face and body and an inability to exercise as I'm used to leaves me feeling haggard and frumpy and weighing more than I have in my entire life. I didn't weigh this much at 9 months pregnant with Lola. I started out this time older and fatter. Also, married, happier and stable, but try selling that consolation prize to my ass.

Pregnant sex has just rounded that corner from incredibly hot and constant to slightly ridiculous. I mean come ON. I'm normally an extremely passionate, sexually driven person, even now in my thirties, and so is Mr. Curry, it's part of our thing, what makes our marriage tick even when the tock is off. But how can I take my own passions seriously when my stomach bounces against his abdomen like a water balloon about to burst? When he tickles me in the wrong place and I worry about peeing on him? When my breasts have funny crumbly stuff on the nipples? When...hey! Did you stop reading just now? I don't blame you. And just proves my point. Sex is already kind of ridiculous, it's fumbly mumbly bumpy humpy grunting noise making fun fun stuff that leaves you as helpless and vulnerable and prickly as a wet cat. There are moments of graceful sensuality, but there is a reason sex is not shown as is in porno; who wants to watch a middle age man's face turn beet red and make a noise like a balloon with the air slowly leaking out?

So excuse ME if I'm not completely enlightened when a sleek cat like dark skinned girl with a beautiful bubble butt in short shorts swings her flexing thighs in front of my husband's face while I sit, swollen and freckle faced and makeup less, in a shirt riding slightly up my large belly and pants that are airy and comfortable makes me a little crazy with jealousy. It's not having anything to do with Mr. Curry. As the amazingly articulate and gentlemanly Scott from The Kardashian's reassures his insecure wife who just had a baby, Honey you know I try to stick it to you all the time. Mr. Curry has loved me since we were teenagers, waited for me for ten years to love him back, and lusted after me enough in this marriage alone to fill ten harems with happy women. He looks at me with lust daily, and whatever he sees in my face, it's not the same older but still me everyone else sees- he sees me, just like he always has. The compliments, the attention, to look in his eyes could be more than enough for another pregnant woman.

Well. I am occasionally, slightly ridiculous.

I also attribute my fierce protectiveness of my health and that horrible word that makes women sound like breeding horses, up-keep, to the years and years behind and ahead of us with Mr. Curry unable to keep his hands off me. So sometimes, if that attentiveness slides into the crazy jealous insecurities of a woman possessed. ( I think possessed is a fair word for the state of pregnancy, when another life literally lives inside of you ) then who can blame me?

I'm single handedly protecting the sacred union of marriage!!! *

What about Mr. Curry? I heard you asking. What up-keep is he responsible for? Are you a feminist damnit, or what!? I'll tell you my what. My what is that like many women writers I've known; first of all there is how he looks at me with those eyes, there is the intelligence, the hands, the strength and integrity of spirit ( is his soul straight? oh that is hot ), does he really like women ( so many men, it turns out, don't actually really like women- maybe they just like you, but Mr. Curry likes women- just me the best ) the curve of his ass ( ok this is just looks, but I really never liked a flat ass ) hygiene, ( not too much- I once had a boyfriend who brushed his teeth four times a day and his hair more than I did, but not too little, either ) smell ( Mr. Curry's armpits are sex and home) and then the regulars, humor, adventure, family. And then, the upkeep: What I need from Mr. Curry are his devotions to me as a woman in the singular, quirky ways I need them, to not get really overweight, ( I have to admit this would be hard for me ) to keep up his hygiene, to never linger too long in his looks to a beautiful woman, ( which he could care about 5% is I do the same to a man ) to brag on me the way he always has, and a bunch of other small trivialities that make up the enormous puzzle of a long marriage. We meet each other's needs not because we demand that they be the same, but that they both be valued.

Actually I have no idea what Mr. Curry needs from me to stay in lust. I have a feeling it simply involves keeping potato chip crumbs out of my stomach folds and washing my face. My demands are on myself and I certainly ask for more from Mr. Curry than he asks from me.

Why this last week alone I've requested he stop spitting in front of me, pluck his nosehairs, trim his facial hair and stop wearing so much deodorant! I think on Wednesday he asked me to stop wearing thongs because if I get another infection and we can't have sex he's going to lose it.

* Did I mention I'm vain?