Caveman Circus
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There’s a common belief that love is an unpredictable, mercurial force, like a lightning storm that either electrifies you into an ecstatic state or fries you into charcoal. This belief is mostly bullshit. Love is mostly logistics. It’s about how much effort it takes to exist next to another human being without wanting to spontaneously relocate to a different time zone.
First, some quick details:
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1. I want my left foot gone. There’s a distinct line where I feel the stump should end. My foot feels like it’s supposed to be there, but at the same time it’s not. My foot, ankle or the lower half of my shin will tingle or hurt sometimes. Every day, I wake up and think: “Damn it, my foot is still attached to my body”.
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1. That not everyone is poor because they’re lazy or stupid or just didn’t try hard enough. There’s this deeply embedded belief in our country that poor people somehow deserve to be poor, and it’s amazing to me how blindly people believe this.
My parents have worked my entire life, often more than one job at a time. When I was in high school both my parents had two jobs, and we could still barely afford stuff. And it’s not because they’re lazy, that’s for damn sure. It’s not because they’re dumb, either. It’s because shit fucking happens sometimes, man. It’s been nearly the same for me.
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Me and my husband have had sex maybe once in the last year. Before that, our intimacy has been slowly dwindling. When/if he tries to initiate, I say no, I’m not in the mood, I’m tired, or just straight out ignore him. I go to bed earlier than him, we barely even cuddle. I rarely initiate.
1. “Maybe you can treat yourself like a person and not like a project.” It changed my life. I’d been treating myself like something to fix, and seeing every little problem as evidence that I was a failure and a terrible person. I learned to give myself the same benefit of the doubt as I’d give any other human I met on the street. Humans make mistakes, including me—that doesn’t mean there’s issues to fix, it means I’m a person.
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I never set out to be that guy. You know, the one who walks into a room and immediately feels people looking. The one who gets asked for directions on the street way more than anyone else I know—like I have some innate GPS capability wired into my skull. The one people instinctively trust before I’ve even said a word.
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I used to be very hot.
Now, I’m 61. I’m not hot. I’ve had two babies. I’ve been sleep-deprived for most of my life. My hair is a mess—maybe an unspoken symptom of something I never got diagnosed. I’ve never been legally married, which feels ironic, because back when I was young and beautiful, I used to wonder how those girls were ever going to find husbands, looking like that.
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There’s an argument to be made that all romantic relationships exist on a continuum between pure fantasy and ruthless capitalism. I’d like to believe that love is real, that courtship is some chaotic but genuine attempt to connect souls, but I also recognize the transactional nature of the whole enterprise. The sugar life just leans into that premise harder than most.
What does it mean to be in love? Is it the butterflies, the late-night conversations, the shared dreams of a future that feels like a John Hughes movie? Or is it something else entirely—something quieter, more pragmatic, and maybe even more real? I’ve been married for eight years, and I can tell you this: my marriage is not a love story. It’s not even close. But it’s also not not a love story. It’s something else, something that exists in the gray area between obligation and affection, between convenience and commitment. And honestly? It works.
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