I avoided couples therapy for years, worried I'd be found the villain in the story. After all, I am the one who feels dissatisfied. The recent dearth of sex is due to my disinterest. And while I can no sooner fathom sticking my tongue in his mouth than licking a tiger's butt, Rob says he'd love to make it with me. Ew!

I quietly toyed with the idea leaving, and I brought up the idea of trial separation. I'm the one who dreams of being single and exploring the world anew, with no ring.

I imagine simple luxuries will be more meaningful because I will be affording them (if barely) on my own. My apartment will be humble, but it will be mine — no husband in sight to subsidize fancy meals out, fundraising dinners, or even hardcover paperbacks from the bookstore! (Back to waiting for the paperback releases.)

The way therapy played out, however, I saw how we've equally damaged "us." Petty, but this realization saves me a bit of guilt and stress. And, my care for Rob ever-present despite our troubles, I was relieved to tell him the hurtful details of my side of the story in a safe place where he was supported by a listener who had the protection of his ego in mind perhaps more than I.

We've had only one session, but it was promising. Not because it set our relationship on the road to recovery, but because it revealed a path toward a better us — separate or apart.

If any of you fellow contemplators are similarly avoiding "the couch," I challenge you to reconsider.