My Darling Husband

Was listening into an interview Rosie from IllicitEncounters.com did on BBC Covetry (I am 'in' with them now...not sure how positive that is!). They gave her a pretty hard time I must admit, which I guess is fair enough, but there was one thing that really pissed me off.

At one point, the presenter (irritating little man, didn't disguise his polemic very well) mentioned the wedding vows. He said "But what about the promises you make when you marry someone? Don't they count for anything?"

You know what, Mister Radio Presenter? Since I began my affair, I am more capable of looking after my husband, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, than ever before. Because the stress I used to feel about our sex life has finally gone, I am able to support him better than ever. My perspective is clearer. I know now, better than ever, that we are made for one another. And, as a secondary point, our sex life is MUCH better.

To those non-cheaters, this may sound contradictory. But my relationship with James, although intimate, is functional. If James stopped being able to provide me with the things I need, then I would stop seeing him. I hope that he feels the same way about me.

I wish there was a way of making people understand that convention does not always dictate the best way. A faithful mariage is an ideal, but I genuinely believe it is not always posible. Maybe if everyone took a second to think about this, there wouldn't be as many unhappy marriages in the world.



Okay. Rant over. Sorry about that folks. Next time I'll post something funnier. In the meantime, here's a joke to lighten the mood...

Guy goes into a bar. Big guy, but his head is the size of an orange.

Goes up to the bartender, orders a beer. Bartender serves him and asks why a big guy like him has such a small head.

So the guy tells him his story: He was stranded on a desert island. He hadn't seen a women in weeks and was beginning to think he might die out there alone. But one lonely day he stumbled upon a genie lantern. Out comes this beautiful genie who says, "I'll grant you one wish . . . what will it be?". The man thinks, then asks "Well, it's been such a long time, and I don't know how long I'm going to be stranded here - I wish for you to make love to me". The genie shakes her head. "I'm afraid I can't grant that wish."

The guy says, "Ok then, how 'bout a little head?"

LOL.

The Realisation

Finally, some positivity.

Yesterday, prior to my revendevous with James, I was stood in front of my full-length mirror in my bathroom, stocking-and-suspendered up, checking the shock-absorbing qualities of my new basque.

What a nice image.

So many of my friends complain about their bodies, their saggy bingo-wings, their alopecia (thankfully that one bypassed me). But honestly, I think it's about the way you see yourself. For example, I am a healthy size 12. Many of my fitnnes-freak friends find this a little appauling, force feeding me rice crackers, or encouraging me to swap my muffin for a granola bar.

I think it's a bit out-of-order. I am not fat. I am curvy. In fact, I think a fuller-figure is an asset, rather than a draw back. (However, I must stress, when I say a 'fuller figure' is an asset, I do not mean the kind of 'fuller figure' which proves problematic in doorways.)

After sometime of embracing this rather anti-women ideal of the skinny minnie, I have decided to give my friend's prejudices the boot, and am feeling much the better for it. So much so that yesterday I donned my underwear in a pre-date rehearsal, and danced rather vigorously around my room to an old Alisha's Attic album. Like a banshee. Maybe even a wailing one.


New M&S super-bra and suspender belt. He is not going to know what...

...hit him.

Tiptoe, tiptoe

Since 'The Big Panic', I have been extra-extra-cautious about things, and vow never to log onto IllicitEncounters from home again. Still temptation is there.

Last night I was lying in bed with hubby. I got up to go to the toilet, him sleeping deep beside me, and that nagging little thought came into my head. "He's far gone", it said "You can go and get your rocks off downstairs, it's safe."

No, little devil on my shoulder. Be quiet.

I am learning to control the voices. Well, voice. It is the same voice which tells me to buy a Burger King on the way home, when I know they're be a nice healthy stir fry waiting for me. It's the voice that, when I'm lying in bed with James, tells me to call in sick. "*Cough cough*...swine flu."

No. Bad Michelle. Control yourself.

It is so easy to be bad, and so hard to be good. So I guess the only way to survive is to be good at being bad. Or something like that. Cheater's logic. Gotta love it.