Getting ‘Comfortable’

I have a theory. I have many theories in my head, most of which are not my own, some don’t make sense, but this one popped in just a few moments ago and I haven’t had chance to thoroughly process my thoughts on it just yet.

I have been with my partner for six and a half years and to look at me, people would say I had gotten ‘comfortable’, which bluntly means fat or not looking after myself, eating what I want, becoming lazy etc. It’s a commonly used term that usually vomits itself out of elderly relatives mouths at family parties. 

So, a few moments ago, before I got painfully bored of being ignored and stormed out of the room, I was sitting quite uncomfortably on my dining room chair gazing over at a soul-less man. He had not long returned from work and more or less dove on his PC to lose himself in a game while I was suspended mid sentence. It wasn’t important but he didn’t notice I had ceased speaking until I said “we’ve been together too long.”

I was brooding over my ultimate question and the humiliation I feel at the fact that he won’t ask me to marry him. I was staring into the twilight surrounding his frozen silhouette, bursting to tell him that I would rather die than attend another wedding for the guests to stare at me and wonder why he doesn’t love me that much. He didn’t take the statement well in any case and now we’re not speaking, but we always come back to this same point and I always feel as if he will give me everything in the world except the one thing I want.

Family, friends, I don’t know what they’re doing and I’m curious to discover how, after only two years together everybody seems to be getting engaged, seem so in love while we’re just getting increasingly sick of one another as more time passes. One more wrinkle, one more grey hair, ageing rapidly and running out of time. He rushes around with other aspects of his life and yet procrastinates with me.

Coming up to the seventh anniversary and we have only eight months ago moved in together, I feel like a meal worm dangling from his hook waiting to be saved but instead I’m fed to the fish. I hounded for us to move in together, whereas other couples move in after six months, we were getting embarrassingly too old to be still living with our parents, we had to do it. Everything is a slog, a drag, and a bitter acceptance of what may never come. When he finally decides he wants the same as me, I’ll be too old, too independent and I won’t want him at all, but I want to know what is wrong with me the way I am now?

I sat and pondered for a second over my ‘comfortable’ body and all I could shout in my mind was “I’m not comfortable, I’m unhappy!”

There it was.

It’s not comfort.

It’s sadness.

Do we gain weight because they really make us so unhappy we give up on ourselves? Or if not give up but seek comfort in another form, alcohol or food, whichever, is that what ‘comfortable’ really means? Making yourself comfortable because no one else does. 

It is so often perceived as ‘oh I got a man so I don’t have to be careful what I eat now’ but is that it? Right now, I don’t think so. I may comfort eat but that doesn’t make me comfortable, the fact is that I comfort eat when I’m sad and I feel that he has made me sad for six and a half years because he does not want me as his wife.
Marriage never bothered me before, I’m not that white wedding girl with bridesmaids colours already picked out in a secret notebook, but once I heard those words that fed my deepest insecurities and my feeling of inadequacy, it became the only thing that I could think about.

Why doesn’t he want me?

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2 thoughts on “Getting ‘Comfortable’

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