Everyday Bliss Facebook ad: “Married 38 Years And I Never Once Felt It”

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38 years married and I had never once felt what everyone else describes. Not once. I only found out why at 61. And after my sister explained one thing to me at her kitchen table, something I'd given up on before I was 30 finally happened, in about four weeks. My name is Carol. I'm 61, I kept the books for a plumbing supply company for 31 years, and I've been married to Walter since I was 23. Walter is a good man. Retired bus mechanic, fixes every neighbor's lawnmower for free, still brings me coffee in the blue mug every morning at 6:40. So please understand this isn't a story about a bad husband. It's a story about a woman who spent almost four decades thinking she was built wrong. When we were first married I thought it just took time. My girlfriends would laugh about things at baby showers and I'd laugh along like I knew what they meant. I didn't. I'd read about it in magazines at the beauty shop, that wave, that feeling of letting go, and I'd think... maybe they exaggerate for the magazines. By 30 I'd decided some women just don't get that part. By 40 I'd stopped thinking about it at all, mostly. I did what alot of us do. I made sure Walter was happy and I told myself that was enough, and I was good at it, the way I was good at making numbers balance at the end of the month. Then menopause came in around 52 and took even the little bit of comfort I had. Things got dry. Then they got sore. Then being close felt like somebody striking a match on bare skin, over and over, and me smiling through it. So I started with the excuses. "I'm worn out, honey." "My back's acting up again." "Let's just watch the rest of the game." Walter started falling asleep in the recliner. Then he just stayed there. One night in February I woke up at 2:47 AM and his side was cold and I could hear the TV going low in the den, and I sat on the edge of the bed and thought, this is it, this is the rest of it. I'd like to say I didn't try. I tried plenty. Here's the list, since I'm a bookkeeper and I kept one: A $34 marriage book from the church bookstore. Read it twice. Underlined things. Nothing. A $14 warming gel from the drugstore. Burned like peppermint on a cut. Used it once. The estrogen cream my gyno wrote me, $64 a tube, 4 months, messy, and I still flinched. Maca and some women's vitamin a lady at the gym swore by, $58 a bottle, 3 months. The buzzing thing Denise bought me as a joke for my 50th. I tried it twice. It felt like the dentist's drill had wandered off and got lost. Six sessions with a counselor at church who kept asking about my childhood. When I finally told my gyno the whole truth, that I had never felt it, not even once, she looked at her screen and said, "Some women just aren't wired that way, Carol. At this stage, I'd focus on comfort." At this stage. I cried in the car in the parking garage for twenty minutes with the engine off. The person who changed it was my little sister Denise. Denise was a nurse for 29 years, most of it in women's health at the county hospital, and she has no filter whatsoever. I was at her house in March helping her do her taxes, and she asked why I looked so tired, and I don't know what came over me but I told her. All of it. The 38 years. The recliner. She put her pencil down. "Carol. Never? Not one time?" "Not one time." "And nobody ever asked you about blood flow? About friction?" "Nobody ever asked me about ANYTHING." She pulled her chair closer. "OK. Here's what no OB or gyno ever bothered to explain to you." "That feeling everybody talks about needs blood. Blood flow to the tissue down there is what wakes the nerves up. Some women run a little low on it their whole lives. Then estrogen drops and it slows to a crawl." "When the blood doesn't show up, the tissue thins. It dries. The nerves go quiet." "That's the soreness. That's the nothing you've been feeling." I just sat there with her W-2 in my hand. "Now here's the part that makes me angry," she said. "Everything you got handed. The gel, the cream, that silly buzzing thing I gave you. What do they all do?" "I don't know. Rub?" "They rub. They press and drag on tissue that's already thin and starving for blood. Friction on tissue that can't take friction." "So it hurts, and you brace, and when you brace the blood goes even further away." "You weren't built wrong, Carol. You were just being rubbed raw." I laughed and then I cried, right there over her tax return. I asked her what I was supposed to do, at 61, about something I'd never even had. She didn't answer right away. She said she'd think about it. Two weeks later she texted me a link with no message, just a lemon emoji. I called her. "What is this." "Some of the gyno nurses I used to work with talk about it. Read it before you say no." It was called the Lem. I rolled my eyes so hard. It looks like a little lemon, Denise. I'm a grown woman. But she called back that night and explained it the way she explains everything, like I'm a slow student she loves. "Here's how it's different from everything you've tried." "It doesn't rub. It doesn't grind on the tissue at all." "It uses something called air-pulse. Gentle suction, then release. Suction, release. Over and over." "Every pulse pulls a little wave of blood back to where it's supposed to be. The tissue that thinned out wakes up. The nerves that went quiet wake up. The moisture comes back on its own." "No friction. No pressure." "Every gel and cream you bought was just rubbing a surface that was starving underneath. The Lem doesn't rub the surface. It feeds what's below it." I ordered it at 11 that night just to see. Mostly so I could tell her it didn't work. When the box came I hid it in the linen closet behind the Christmas tablecloth for three days. It's smaller than I expected. It stands up on its round bottom end on its own, and there's a little N pressed into the side, and it's soft medical-grade silicone, not hard plastic like that thing from my 50th. It doesn't vibrate. That surprised me. Week 1. I almost didn't. Took it out, put it back, twice. Then one afternoon with Walter at the hardware store I tried it alone, lowest setting, sitting on the bed with the door locked like a teenager. What I noticed was what didn't happen. No sting. No burn. I didn't flinch once. I definately didn't expect that to be the news, but it was. Week 2. I noticed I wasn't clenching my jaw at night anymore. Thursday Walter came in from the garage and kissed the back of my neck at the sink and for once my shoulders came down instead of up. He noticed. He didn't say anything but he stood there longer then he usually does. Week 3. Our grandson Marcus had his 8th birthday and I made two cakes and hosted fourteen people and I didn't touch it the whole week. And here's what got me. The soreness didn't come back. Not the way it always had. That had never happened before, not in nine years. Week 4. I'm going to keep this part mine, mostly. I'll just say that on a Tuesday morning, at 61 years old, something happened to me that I had read about in beauty shop magazines since 1984. I sat on the bathroom floor afterward with a towel around me and cried the good kind. Then I called Denise and couldn't get a word out, and she said, "Oh Carol. Oh honey," and she cried too. Walter's been back in our bed for three weeks now. We're not 23. We're close. Closer than we've been, maybe ever, if I'm being honest. Last Sunday he looked at me over his coffee and said, "You've been humming. You never used to hum." I'm not a doctor and nobody's paying me to write this. I just kept thinking about how many women my age are sitting on the edge of the bed at 2 AM believing they were built wrong, like I did for 38 years. I'll put the link below if you want to look. P.S. The Christmas tablecloth is back in the linen closet by itself now. The lemon lives in my nightstand.

Where the ad sends people

fiftieslifestyle.com

Married 38 Years And I Never Once Felt It

What my sister texted me with just a lemon emoji, and why I finally listened