My husband is the kind of man who takes life too seriously. I, on the other hand, enjoy myself. Even during fights with him, I make it a point to petition the narrative gods for some sort of satisfying arc to draw pleasure from. He provides much of the raw rage material. And I take the confrontation from beginning, middle, to end. He never wants to end the fight. That’s his problem. He’s got no “do it for the plot” sensibility. To him, everything is real, a never-ending stream of data. How unnecessarily tedious.
I know you haven’t asked, but in my opinion, the principle of The Sanctity of Life should lean less moral, more hedonic.
I’ve never been bored with life.
I’m only bored with my husband.
My breakfasts are delicious. Lunch is always with a friend. And the friends are always well prepared with secrets, cigarettes, and whispers of discrete outings with illicit lovers.
Even though I’ve entered the second half of my life, my workouts have never been better. Somehow, the sweat that drips off my lips tastes sweeter than I remember it being in my younger years. I cherish each session. Somehow, my figure still turns heads, a fact that delights me to no end.
When I started my business ten years ago, my husband considered it a hobby. God knows I didn’t need the money. But the business has done quite well. I’ve learned a lot. Watched it grow profitable. Taken no shortage of pride in my husband’s indignant surprise.
I know my true calling is to joy—first and foremost, and forevermore, until death (hopefully) redirects my soul into unending bliss.
However, my secondary calling is this: to walk the path of pleasure alongside a man who knows not its glories, to tease his unrelenting sourness, to provoke the well of gladness within my flesh in his presence.
That is all. That is enough to keep my candle lit.