On being Voldemort’s bitch

Of the many perplexing things that my husband has discovered about me over the past eleven years, this one is the most shocking.

When my husband and I first met almost thirteen years ago, I was young(er) and thin(er, ha!). I wore platforms or wedges everywhere I went. If I wasn’t at least five inches taller than my god-given height, I wasn’t walking around. I carefully applied the trendiest MAC make-up day after day. I wore cute little outfits that I wouldn’t dare wear now, even if I was that size again. I drove around in my cute little silver Honda with bass so loud you could feel it on your bottom when you were sitting in my car. I’d meet my friends for a night of drinking and dancing in downtown Monterey. Other weekends I’d drive up to San Francisco and go drinking and dancing up there.

I was the shit.

And I knew it.

But my monthly metamorphosis wasn’t noticable until I after got married. Even more noticable after having children.

I felt like this last week. I became the “nerd” in a John Hughes movie. Neurotic. Mumbling as if I’ve forgotten how to use my voice box. Refusing to make eye contact. Cringing whenever someone addressed me. I turned into goddamned Wormtail.

My vanity was replaced by insecurity, my spunk by meekness. I no longer strutted around the house, trying to get compliments from my husband. I withdrew into myself. I second guessed myself about EVERYTHING. Was that person I passed by at Target giving me a dirty look? Did I take her cart? Why was that other person staring at me? Am I smelly? They must see that giant pimple reminiscent of the dreaded junior high years. Kamehameha could have taken cover behind this beauty on my chin, let me tell you.

Luckily my husband has lived with me long enough to know it’s only temporary, lasting only but a few days. I become my arrogant self in no time but without my husband here I don’t notice this change. Sometimes I’d cry and complain about how my pants fit, or during this time, didn’t fit. Other times I’d refuse to do anything that day, preferring to snack on chocolate chips reserved for baking.

He’s not here to look at me and sigh and give me a great big hug. He’s not here to gently suggest a pedicure even though we should be saving our money. He’s not here to whisper in my ear while the kids are watching tv next to us, “I bought you a Cadbury. It’s on the top shelf.” He isn’t here to listen to my gripes, my worries, my complaints. He isn’t here.

Don’t worry. I’ll go back to my regular self in a few days. I’ll go back to fishing for compliments over the phone with my husband. I’ll go back to telling him how lucky he is to have me.

I’ll go back to feeling this way again soon…

Thank goodness being Voldemort’s bitch is temporary!

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