On the seven year itch.

Dear Coquette,

I’m 37 and feel like I’m married to the wrong man. He’s a great provider and loves me unconditionally. We don’t have kids yet, but he wants to. Should I risk leaving him to try to find “the one” even though I’m no spring chicken?

You’re 37? Jesus, lady. Put down that Chardonnay-stained copy of “Eat, Pray, Love” and back away slowly because that nonsense has you talking like a doe-eyed teenager.

I’m sorry that you don’t wake up every morning blissed out with a raging ladyboner for your husband, but that doesn’t mean you’re married to the wrong man, and it sure as hell doesn’t imply the existence of the right man.

It’s sad to see a woman your age still suffering from the delusion that there is such a thing as “the one.” Get that Prince Charming crap out of your head. There are just a bunch of men out there, any number of whom could be perfectly compatible life partners for you. Sure, there’s a slim chance you could meet someone you think is better and, over time, build a more intimate connection with him than your current husband. Probably not, though. You don’t strike me as the type with realistic expectations of the men who are available to romantically unfulfilled 37-year-old divorcées. 

The real problem here is that you’ve got a nasty little case of the seven-year itch, and you’re trying to scratch it Oprah’s Book Club style. All that suburban housewife ennui is combining with your massive sense of entitlement, and before you know it you’ll have an ex-husband paying spousal support so you can go on some scented-candle journey of self-discovery. Ugh.

I wish we could just skip to the part where you get a little taste of enlightenment, but you’re still seeking contentment in the silly fiction of a perfect mate, in spite of the fact that you’ve already said your vows to a great provider who loves you unconditionally.

Sorry, lady. Your husband isn’t the problem. You are. As long as you’re of the belief that someone else can be the source of your happiness, you’re doomed to wallow in this minor state of existential crisis.

There’s no chance of you finding what you’re looking for if you keep looking outside yourself. Leave your husband. Don’t leave him. Whatever. In the end, just take some personal responsibility for both your actions and your own happiness.

Good luck finding a clue.


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