The question of the day, “Will I have any luck on Match.com?” This question is interchangeable with any dating site of your choice. At least six people I know will read this article this week and think I was writing about a conversation with them. I get that question so often, I’m thinking about writing a brochure, keeping them in my purse, and just handing them out when the subject comes up. Part of the reason I get asked the question so often is because I wrote a book on relationships and I’m a relationship coach. The other reason is, I met my beloved on Match.
Note: As always, follow my journey on my personal blog, So about what I said... Please note: The following story occurred when I was a very young, very naïve 26-year-old. I’ve since blossomed into a mature 28-year-old. Last summer, I had the pleasure of revisiting my giggly googly-eyed school girl days. We’re talking full-on red-faced, body fidgeting here (please note my inner teen coming out in the form of italics for the purposes of this story). I actually owe it all to Crush Boy. I’m sure you remember reading about his visit to my house. If not, allow me to help you relive the glory. OMG, Crush Boy is in my house.
Note: As always, you can follow my life and love with a physical disability on my personal blog, So about what I said... I've had three great loves in my life, all three of which rejected me. They were all silent rejections too. No words were said, and no reason was given for said rejection, such as “I need my space,” “This just isn’t working for me” or “I met someone else [read: someone who is prettier, smarter, less clingy, etc] I’d even settle for the classic “I just want to be friends” routine. But then again, I didn't need them to say the reason out loud. I already knew what it was: my physical disability. It was my own Scarlett Letter, a sort of man repellent, I thought, that seemed to make men want to stay at least 50 feet away from me. At. All. Times.
There's been a lot of talk lately about women's sexual health. Either we're not doing it, or we don't feel like doing it, or don't like the feel of doing it. I fall squarely into that third category, because when it comes to matters of the old in-and-out, my girl parts are afraid of boy parts. Sounds ridiculous, I know. But I have a doctor's note. My condition is called vaginismus. It's basically a gag reflex for your downstairs, or like the mythical vagina dentata, but without the badass peen-chomping teeth. It's goes a little something like this: Say I'm about to get down to business with my best guy. We're hot, we're heavy, we're headed to the bedroom. All casual-like he sidles his yang on up to my yin, and at the first whiff of that quivering member, we have a lockdown situation. My cooter shuts up tighter than a Chinese finger trap. Nothing's getting in. Not nobody, not no how.
You may have noticed the new LoveMom logo popping up around YourTango in the past week. No, you're not hallucinating. LoveMom is a new blog we're launching on the intersection of love, life and kids. What does this mean? Primarily, it means that we're not bringing you your typical mom blog content.
I believe there is a secret to a happy marriage. It's easy. Find the magic, celebrate it like a six year old on Christmas everyday. Look for the party and show up for each other. Be that couple that makes other people roll their eyes and wish you'd get a room. If you aren't living the fantasy quite yet, pretend you are and party on. And - and this is maybe most important as if your life depends on it, look for the very best in him - because your life may not depend on it, but your love certainly does.