Well, I learned something over the past few days. What is it, you ask? That, just like the messy, uncomfortable truths about the female body and raising children, no one really tells you the truth about marriage. Especially the long-term kind.

When I was in 5th grade, all the girls were summoned to the auditorium to watch a grainy movie about getting your period, handed a goody bag filled with what felt like tiny instruments of horror, and sent on our way. No follow-up, just a powder blue pamphlet with a few Q&As, as if that was enough to prepare an 11-year-old for what was coming. By the time my period actually arrived four years later, that pamphlet and that bag of horrors were long gone.

Fast forward to middle age, when your body suddenly decides your vagina is the Sahara Desert, your internal thermostat is unreliable at best, and you can go from calm to combustion in seconds. And if your partner, or let’s be honest, a complete stranger, has the audacity to speak, look, eat, drink, or breathe at the wrong moment, you’re fairly certain a jury of your peers would understand your reaction.

Which begs the question: why do we have 20 sequels to Fast & Furious, but not a single follow-up to that period classic? Come on!

I remember being pregnant, big as a house, and being told, “You’re glowing.” Funny how the reaction shifts a bit when you’re big as a house without the baby.

And yet, no one, and I mean not a single soul, said anything useful at the baby shower.

Were they all blinded by the tiny clothes? Just happy to be away from their own kids for a few uninterrupted hours? Or silently agreeing it wasn’t the moment to mention how your body changes in ways no one fully prepares you for… that sleep becomes a distant memory, that the worrying never really stops, or that one day you’ll be negotiating daily with a miniature version of yourself, and still losing?

I’m going with all of the above.

Now, the reason any of this is surfacing is, drum roll, please, marriage. The long-term kind. I’m 35 years in, and Lord knows… a lot has happened along the way. None of which is mentioned when you’re goggle-eyed and can’t keep your hands off each other.

Over the weekend, the topic of sex, or more accurately, the lack of it, rose right to the top. And just to be clear… not my doing.

This is just another thing no one really talks about. Not honestly, anyway. My husband brought it up, starting with how much he misses how things “used to be.”

Oh, you mean when my body cooperated? When my vagina was Niagara Falls instead of the Sahara? Me too.

Or when making love was hot and effortless, instead of something I’ve started to quietly dread, because now, let’s be honest, penetration can feel like shards of glass have entered the room?

Nevertheless, it was a conversation that needed to happen. Thankfully, my man is considerate to a fault, a researcher, a problem-solver, and someone who loves me for who I am, not how I look.

I just wish I loved myself as much as he does.

Disclaimer: This is the very short version. This conversation unfolded over three days, raw, vulnerable, heated, and loving.

Let’s just say… it was a lot.

Conclusion? We’re two people who built an incredible connection, but not a whole lot of communication skills outside the bedroom, where our bodies used to do all the talking. One of us is growing (with the other’s encouragement), and it shows.

The growing pains are real. But the foundation? Still solid.

And then, on day four, emotionally drained and slightly shell-shocked, the universe looked down and said, “Let’s give them a test.”

We were heading out the door when I went into the kitchen to grab a drink. The same kitchen I had been in seconds before.

And there it was.

A swarm. Not a couple of bugs, a full-blown, horror-movie-level SWARM of flying… something.

Later identified as flying termites.

I’ll give you a second to gag.

Absolutely disgusting doesn’t even begin to cover it.

We had never experienced anything like this before, and hopefully, never will again. But in that moment? We were in the trenches. The kind that had us setting alarms to wake up every two hours… to vacuum the invaders.

Romance, but make it pest control.

And somewhere between the second and third middle-of-the-night termite massacre, I had a realization: this, this, is marriage.

Two people, half-asleep, each armed with their own vacuum, silently waging war against flying termites at 2 a.m. No discussion. No delegation. Just mutual understanding and a shared mission.

That’s not in any wedding vows I’ve ever heard…

…but honestly?

That’s amore.

Enjoy the ride!