The Comfort Zone

We’ve all done it, settled into a relationship and been hit by the contentment train. We relax a little, allow our men to see us in our comfy fluffy pj’s with matching fluffy slippers, wear the comfy knickers from time to time, and stop being so paranoid about every little detail. In other words we stop trying to be perfect and just hope our man won’t mind the real version. We still make an effort though, we still want them to find us attractive so we try to keep ourselves looking nice and maintaining our appearance. Men, when content that their partner does indeed love them and are secure in the knowledge that the lady in their life is around for good seem to abandon all of their principles which you were so impressed by. I remember when me and my partner met, for about three months he would go out of the room to pass wind, I was so impressed that a man would go to such lengths in the name of manners. Of course it didn’t last and before long he was asking me to pull his finger so he could fart on demand. Other niceties disappeared too, the interest in my emotional wellbeing for example. There was a time when he would listen attentively to my tales of a bad day at work, nod sympathetically and practically fall over himself to give me a foot rub. Now, when I return from work after a stressful day I barely even receive a grunt of recognition as I walk through the door. If I try to instigate a conversation and the TV is on (which is most of the time) he’ll impatiently respond with “I’m trying to watch this, tell me in the break”. Then I try to cram a full conversation into a three minute commercial break and you can guarantee he’s not listening to a word I’m saying, he’s more interested in ogling the girl on the clubbing CD advert who is busy grinding her way around a pole.
Don’t get me started on the lack of interest in their appearance either, when you’re courting they’re always at the gym, toning and honing themselves. Now, we’d be more likely to find them in the KFC next to the gym rather than on the treadmill. They’d make a real effort in their clothing choices too, always looking dapper and sharp. Now they wear any old thing, and more often than not will decide to do the painting in their best shirt. Sweaty feet hang over the arm of the sofa, their dirty socks discarded in a little sweat pile on the living room floor along with their smelly shoes. They get up in the morning, bedraggled and with their once pristine boxer shorts hanging halfway down their ass, scratching their head with one hand and their balls with the other. They take great pleasure in striding off to the bathroom with the paper under their arm and don’t even have the good grace to open the window when they’ve finished. All of the endearing little habits that impressed us so much long gone now, along with their manners and sense of romance.
Now if I mention romance he looks at me like I’ve gone slightly mad. The man who would once light candles all over the house now considers them a severe fire risk and the cause of the majority of house fires. The remote control which was once a dual owned piece of equipment is in now in sole possession of his lordship, apparently it’s been surgically attached to his finger and would cause intolerable pain if it were removed.
The truly deluded men even criticise their long suffering partners, making snidey remarks if they’ve put on a little weight (failing to notice they’ve put on three time as much and we haven’t said a word). Or be the first to mention the grey hair they’ve spotted and when they do go shopping with us they pick out the most garish and slutty outfit as the winner. It sometimes makes me wonder if they know us at all. And they wonder why we all have a rabbit, it doesn’t talk back, looks pleased to see us and makes us feel really good – what more could a girl ask for!