Having a long distance relationship was great. Before. Had we not lived 3,000 miles away from each other, we wouldn't have made it past a month. I would have cut and run. He would have cut and run. We would have gone too fast — with feelings that strong, that quick — panicked, and fled. The distance forced us to take it slow. The distance did much to quell my panic. The distance kept me from feeling I was giving anything up. 

But now — now it's harder. 

Here's the problem with falling in love again: You get lonely. I like living alone. I like coming home and having a quiet apartment, my cats, my space — but now I find that once I've had a couple days — or, sometimes, a couple hours — of that, I want him here.

I'm not lonely because I don't enjoy my own company, but because I want his. I like knowing what he's done with his day. I want to be able to have a minute with someone who loves me after a difficult day. I want to go to sleep and know that I'll see him when I wake up.

Feeling this way is scary. Because loving someone means you give up being perfectly fine on your own. It means there's someone to miss. It means that you start to count on someone other that yourself.

There are times I don't want to be in that position. There's a lot we give up when we open ourselves up to someone. Sometimes, that's a tough trade. 

For some reason, Rob is less needy lately. When he isn't in constant monologue trying to describe every experience he had while we were apart during the day, I'm more curious about how he spends his time. I have questions for him and we can dialog. This works for me. I guess without Rob breathing down my neck, the time we do spend together seems more...pleasant!

Our trip to the meditation center was helpful — our program allowed us time together apart from the group, plus time apart from each other. We struck a nice balance.

Due to the quiet-hours rule and no television, we went to bed together at the same time — a big change in routine. At home Rob retires after 11 and I fall asleep on the couch. I usually wake around 1 or 2 and go to bed. That leaves no awake time in bed together. At Kripalu we stayed up comparing notes on the workshop and laughing about quirks of the other participants. I felt downright close to him! (I even let him spoon me as we fell asleep.) 

This closeness has come just in time for the stressful holidays. We're about to embark on a four-day family extravaganza covering 1200 miles, three families, and two turkey dinners. Into that mix throw a new step-father; a father with Alzhiemer's and a needy girlfriend; and a brother who says he's not going to show up, but just might, probably drunk, flask in hand. If there's a time I ever needed a partner, it's now. 

My husband wishes I were more sexual. Truth be told, his sexual appetite has always outpaced mine. He would have sex three times a day if he could, but I'm completely happy with a couple of times a week. Even before our marital issues starting affecting my performance in bed, I still didn't want to get intimate as often as he did.

Nowadays it takes quite a bit to get me in the mood. Strike one: I have back problems, and as my chiropractor so delicately put it I shouldn't do anything that involves "jerking up-and-down motions." Strike two: I'm usually pretty exhausted from the rigors of motherhood, working, and all the other fun stuff that comes with my role in life. Strike three: Yeah, this is gross, but my two pregnancies not only blessed me with two beautiful children, but also bestowed upon me some pretty serious hemorrhoids. When those bad boys flare up, getting me in the mood for sex is downright impossible. 

Okay, so now you probably know more about me than you care to. Sorry about that.

When my husband hasn't had sex in a couple of days he starts dropping hints and making sexual innuendoes in conversation. The other day I was heading out to the gym and I made the comment that I was in need of a good workout. He arches his eyebrow and says, "I can give you a good workout." I really don't like when he makes these types of comments in front of the kids, so I say, "What Daddy doesn't seem to realize is that sometimes Mommy can't hang from the chandelier and whoop it up." To this he sighs and responds, "Don't worry...I expect very little from you."

Ouch.

I already feel like a failure as a wife because I can't just find a way to be happy in this relationship. I thought I was at least being a good wife by hooking him up with some sex on a regular basis, but apparently I can't even get that right. 

I had a fun reunion in Dallas with a divorced gal pal I just love. We caught up over lunch about everything including her social life. They're either looking' for a nurse or a purse, she said point blank. I spit out my soup. When she told me her sister just sent her and her contractor a three year anniversary card, I snorted my salad.

What's going on around the country with divorced women with respect to their social lives really runs the gamut of emotions at different times.

This particular sweet potato has been in a couple serious relationships since her divorce back when, then she attempted some online and offline dates but they weren't working out.

She realized the problem too. HER. She just didn't give two craps. I think that was a quote.

She wished she did she said, but she didn't. So she stopped dating and started picking up men — in her pick-up truck — to work at her house and then go home.

Her contractor is the current man in her life and apparently its been going on for awhile. Three years is awhile, no?

But she explained, even a steady contractor can go MIA on occasion forcing you to find a replacement.

She told me she was so excited about a recent available contractor, he thought she was coming on to him.

Something tells me it may have had something to do with her opening line — "Show me your rock hard sheet rock baby!"

Some contractors even play hard to get she said, which is why her pick up line is of choice is? ... "Hey I've got a pick-up!"

So now we know.

Some women are out there flashing sexy legs and cleavage to attract men...others are out there flashing pick-up trucks to attract day workers.

To each her own.

Attitude is everything!

Debbie

To email Debbie: [email protected]

By the time I decided to end things with S, we'd been friends for 20 years, and a couple for nearly three: the first one, blissful; the second, puzzling; the third, what the heck am I still doing?

My decision made, I anguished over how to break things off. My inner demon suggested shooting off an email. Keep in mind, this is a guy who for my birthday, gave me a set of those huge, ugly bed rests with the arms that college kids like. One turquoise velour, the other brown canvas. For my beautifully serene and spare blue-gray bedroom. Because he was never comfortable watching TV there. (Note: These now look lovely in my daughters' dorm rooms.)

But I had to remember that first year too — how he had magically appeared in my life when I needed him the most, how he had eased the pain of Ex's remarriage, how he had so engaged my daughters on all our many vacations, how much I had enjoyed being a part of his family. No, an email simply wouldn't do. As much as I hate hate HATE confrontation, a confrontation it had to be.

So naturally, I stalled. I was busy with travel for work; he was busy traveling for play: golf trips, ski weeks, ski weekends.

And as our every weekend together routine turned into once a month, I sort of figured the relationship might just atrophy on its own into oblivion.

No such luck.

A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. So I told him that while we'd had a good run, I thought that as a couple, we had run out of steam.

"So, we're not steamy?" was his rejoinder.

Sadly, no.

Robert Frost famously wondered if the world would end in fire or ice. I've always loved (and agreed with) the line:

From what I've tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire.

No steam, no fire, no more desire.

And this is how our world ended.

Sometimes I want so badly to have a happy, intimate marriage that my heart feels like it actually hurts. The cynic in me says that no marriage is actually happy, and anyone who claims to be happy in a marriage is either lying or living in denial. The realist in me, however, knows that there must be something to this whole marriage thing because otherwise we wouldn't all be doing it, right?

Sometimes I just want to scream, "HOW DO I GET HAPPY IN THIS RELATIONSHIP?!" I want someone to tell me what to do to fix things so that I can stop living this life of emotional Atari. I want someone to take my hand and tell me that eventually, everything is going to be okay.

A big part of why I haven't ended things is because I want to believe that there is hope that this can work. What a fantastic thing it would be to someday look back on how we almost split up but then were able to repair the relationship and stay together. I think about how much stronger we can potentially be as a couple after going through all this and then coming out of it all okay.

Then I look at how lukewarm we are toward each other and I wonder if couples ever really recover from something like that.

When does a person decide to actually give up hope and file for divorce? Does it feel like a loss of hope, or does it feel more like a triumph of having made a decision finally? Is it terrifying, empowering, or both?

If my editor at First Wives World one day decides to decrease my word limit all the way down to one, no problem. I could still convey my feelings about my marriage. In a word: meh. Rob drinks too much — meh. We don't have sex — meh. Now Rob is turning things around — meh. Life ekes on, and it's hard for me to muster anything other than indifference over my lackluster marriage.

Indeed, sometimes I wonder if the only reaction my posts about my endless indecision elicit is a big "meh" from readers.

There was never a wife so wishy-washy. It's not without justification entirely — my husband was indifferent to my needs and feelings for the first few years of marriage — but it's embarrassing nonetheless. Some days I wonder what's wrong with me.

So I had to laugh today when I read that the powers that be (in this case, HarperCollins, publisher of the Collins English Dictionary) legitimized the expression. Yep, "meh" is in the dictionary. (So is "yep," by the way.)

When I read it I thought of our honeymoon. (I believe we had sex once the entire week — and that includes our wedding night. I should have known then to expect trouble ahead.)

Our lakeside cabin came replete with a fireplace, canoe...and one fluffy orange cat as neighbor. We laughed whenever Buttercup came around. "Meh...meh...meh," she cried at the porch door.

We thought it was adorable that she couldn't muster a complete "meow." But now I have to wonder, were our little friend's pleas a warning? Maybe she knew something we would remain in denial about for years. Smart cat. 

Okay. I haven't written about the boyfriend in a while. Truth be told, I haven't wanted to jinx it. Things have been going so smoothly I sometimes wonder if there's something wrong?

In the past, I've kept my finger on the pulse of my relationships. If the heart wasn't racing so hard one of us was in danger of a heart attack, then the relationship didn't seem real. It was all emergency-room experiences.

Reality was at such a high pitch, such a fevered pace, there wasn't any down time or room for ambiguity.

Maybe it's maturity. Maybe I'm just exhausted post-divorce, but my new boyfriend and I have a rhythm that's positively lethargic. I'm loving it.

Here's the 411: I'm so busy rushing around with kids, job, music and meetings, that when I make a date with Mr. Right these days, I'm finding peaceful relaxation, safety, security, and the warm-fuzzies are what I'm looking for. Not a racing pulse.

First, I never worry where I stand. He thinks I'm wonderful all the time. Second, whenever I ask, "Would you like to go to such and such?" his response is always, "Are you going to be there?"

He continually assures me that the largest measure of his happiness has to do with being near me.

I remember when I was in my 20s, writing about how I needed a wife. That just goes to show how lowly the position was back then, because I was writing about needing someone to do my laundry, scrub my floors, and cook my dinners.

While Mr. Right isn't angling for the wifey position, he isn't above helping me with household chores. And, he does yard work.

Now you're saying that this sounds too good to be true.

Although divorce has damaged me to the extent that I find it hard to think of a romantic future of more than a single day, I can honestly say that, from a new-age perspective, you really can dream your way to reality.