C,

It’s hard to put fingers to keyboard after your husband informed us at R’s party that he doesn’t find our weblog  funny. Not interesting or intellectual  might be one thing, but ‘not funny’ is like a knife in the heart. Being married to such a man must be like being married to my youngest, who blithely informed me the other day that I looked ugly with my hair tied back. Useful, whenever you need an honest opinion, perhaps, but on no account to be attempted by persons not in direct possession of one’s genetic code. Doesn’t he realize that we have nothing else? That  as our looks fade, our bodies decay and our minds atrophy in the salt mines of motherhood, we were relying on this blog to bring us fame and fortune – or at least the comfort of knowing that someone else wants to hear about our lives? God knows, we can’t rely on our spouses for that.

Faithfully,

P.

P,

You tied your hair back?  Wait, that was not your central point, or was it?  At this chaotic moment, as some or all of four children ten and under clamor for my attention (or try to avoid getting it), our humiliation at the hands of my husband is the least of my concerns–or at least one I am trying desperately to forget as this reality called my life surrounds me.  I suppose it does hover at the edges, however remotely, and as I anticipate his return this evening, I ask myself the ever present question, "Do you think P will ever pull her hair back again?"

Faithfully,

C.

C,

As someone who has heard your sighing – during the context of yoga, I hasten to add – I can sympathize with your young thug’s need to hear your moans. The knowledge that somebody else was at least suffering along with me was about the only thing that kept me going during those interminable hours of exquisite pain. Of course, I’d like to claim that it was my busy schedule that ultimately forced me to give up yoga in favor of nurturing my family or closing all those mult-million dollar business deals, but  ultimately, I think we both realize that  some of us simply lack the moral fiber to volunteer for torture like that – esp. at six am. It didn’t help, of course, that I was always the student who singled out for ’special attention,’ (yoga-ism for being hopelessly inflexible) in class. Is there anything more humiliating than having someone pressing on your ass during downward-facing dog’? I guess you never really outgrow being the fat kid in class…..

Namaste,

P.