The Magic Threshold

Today we'd like to welcome Christa Allan to Adding Zest. Christa is a friend from Exemplify and I had to laugh when I saw her title--we've ended up with two 'magic' things all in one week. It's worth it. :) And now, here's Christa...

The family room is lit by the flickering images on the television screen that no one is watching. I’m pounding away on my laptop in my little corner of the world. The husband is horizontal on the sofa, intermittently snoring but still clutching the remote. The time on my computer seems to move forward every time I hit the keyboard. Finally, when even my fingers are weary and clumsy, I shut down my writing, wake up the husband, and drag myself to the bedroom. I slip my body between the sheets, like tucking a letter into an envelope, and give myself over to sleep I’d been stalling for hours.

But just before I succumb to the weight of my exhaustion, the husband walks into the bedroom. The man who, just minutes before, had been orchestrating a sonata of snores, who had fallen asleep hours before like he’d been drugged by enemy agents, who could barely hoist himself off the sofa, was suddenly alert and energized.

He’d crossed the magic threshold.

So while my body begs for slumber, his barters for sex. Of course. He’s had a three hour evening nap during the time I’ve graded papers, attempted to write something publishable that didn’t require multiple choice answers, play unload and load the dishwasher, play telephone therapy with my adult children who are on their way home from work…

My first reaction is often mild irritation soaked in righteous indignation. The “where was this irresistible urge hours ago when you first armed yourself with the remote?” response. And, honestly, this isn’t about some caveman mentality on the husband’s part. It’s not, for him, Borg-like “resistance is futile.” He’s never pouted or whined if there’s no sex. But, for whatever reason, I’m carrying this burr of guilt because I’ve often made this about what he’s failed to do.

God, who sometimes threatens to shove me off the diving board into my own shallowness, tugged at my conscience and asked, “What are you doing to transform this into an act of love?” I HATE when He does that!

I’ve had to own that some of my laptop time isn’t always a matter of national security, and maybe the husband would nap less if I managed my time so we could cross the threshold earlier. There’s also the possibility that I could initiate a trip across the threshold before I start my computer frenzy.

The epiphany for me was my husband telling me that he doesn’t like going to bed alone. He wants to be able to hold me in his arms before we sleep. And so, he “napped” on the sofa, waiting for me to finish my work.

I have a husband who desires me. That’s the true magic. Some nights, I just have to cross the threshold first.

Christa Allan is the mother of five adult children, a grandmother of three, and a teacher of high school English. She and her husband Ken live in Abita Springs, Louisiana, where they and their three cats enjoy their time playing golf [not the cats] and dodging hurricanes. She's written for Chicken Soup, Cup of Comfort, and other anthologies. Christa contributes monthly to the ezines Afictionado and Exemplify. Her debut women's fiction, Walking on Broken Glass, will be released in February by Abingdon Press. You can visit Christa at her website: www.christaallan.com