Friday, October 24, 2014

The Seven-Year Itch

The seven-year itch is basically synonymous with the classic imagery of Marilyn Monroe and her white dress flowing up. But reality isn’t as pretty when the seven-year itch disturbs your relationship. The phrase is derived from a psychological theory that after seven years of marriage, the interest in the relationship declines.

 At 15 I met my guy, never did I think that we were in it for the long haul, let alone be celebrating our 7-year anniversary. At that age he was taking me to Ultra Music Festival and buying me the latest Dolce & Gabbana shades and he excited me. Seven years later, after a horrible shift at work I grabbed an adult blueberry lemonade (nothing like a little liquid courage) from the local pub with a girlfriend and swore to her that when I get home I am going to lecture my boyfriend on how he has been failing to reach up to his expected standards of perfect. I finally get home to our shared abode to have him tell me,“I don’t know what I want anymore.” Hm, well that’s an interesting statement considering I am fucking perfect.

I let it soak in and then I thought about Marilyn. I thought, “okay,this happens”, men after seven years get bored  and maybe he wants other things; after all we’ve been together since he was 18. Maybe he needed to explore and realize just how awesome I really am. Of course these were some of my thoughts after all of the other morbid ones
subsided. I decided I would never force anyone to be with me. I know my worth and I know that in the end, I’ll be okay. I moved out of our house and moved in with my parents. My parents who should have been my support system were more worried that I would end up alone and not with their perfect, Jewish future son-in-law. Essentially he was perfect. He was just going through a mid, mid life crisis and had to figure himself out. I obviously reassured them of my greatness and told them I am a badass bitch who can handle anything. “I am the
strongest person I know,” I told them, “ if you put me in a jungle I’ll come out alive.”

During the span of a month and a half I was a composed mess.  I religiously jammed to Sam Smith’s Latch, acoustic version, and Banks’ Brain was my anthem. I kept myself busy and my friend who had just lost her job probably hated me. Every weekend I dragged her to South Beach and demanded we raged. I had to get out some of my anger and it seemed easier on the dance floor with a $20 drink in my hand.

I would get random texts from my ex, which seemed weird to say, about things like bills. If I learned anything it’s asking when the AT&T U-Verse bill is due three different times was his version of reaching out to me. We started dating circa 2007; homie hasn’t exercised his dating game in quite a while. But in the form of bills he was making
an effort to come back into my life. I reassured him that if he was going to try to come back into my life and essentially win me back, he was going to have to work very hard. He needed to really feel what it was like to have lost me so that he could appreciate me fully. After a few dates and refusing him of sex, during the next month I felt like a goddess. He seemed different but I knew it was only because we really missed each other.

This break taught me about myself. I knew that I loved him but I also knew that if we were to get together again it wasn’t because I couldn’t live without him, it was because I didn’t want to live without him. Now four months later we are moving into our new home and things are back to normal and the sex is better. 
Moral of the story: Get dumped and the sex gets better.


Disclaimer : This is a writing sample I submitted for a job posting and fit with the voice of the website. 

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