‘I don’t know how you’re going to put up with him for the next 50 years,’ the waitress joked to me on our first wedding anniversary.
Opposite me, my husband Jack* was carrying on with a drink in hand, the life and soul of the party.
While I was aware he was being rather loud and perhaps a little annoying, he didn’t mean any harm.
In fact, I found his excitable nature endearing when we’d first met a few years earlier, in our mid-twenties.
Jack was funny, charming and a great kisser. He talked at a million miles an hour and could never seem to concentrate on one thing for very long – but that was part of what made him so fun and spontaneous.
He had a big heart too. Sweet, kind, close with his parents… the list of great qualities just went on and on.
So I smiled at the waitress, rolled my eyes in mock irritation and enjoyed the rest of the evening celebrating my first anniversary with my silly, entertaining husband.
Twenty-four years and two kids later, the waitress’s comment had begun to ring painfully true.
Now in my 50s and single, I wish I chose the ‘dull guy’ rather than the ‘life of the party’ (stock image posed by models)
Jack’s inability to concentrate on anything for long meant he’d spent two decades jumping from job to job, never holding one down, never forging a real career.
Meanwhile, I worked three jobs, clocking up to 100 hours a week, to keep a roof over our heads and dinner on the table.
Speaking of dinner, my part-time ‘house husband’ couldn’t manage that either.
I’d hand him a shopping list and ask him to do the groceries while I was at work. But he’d call me repeatedly from the supermarket, wanting me to hold his hand through the entire task, incapable of following basic instructions.
Even when he did manage to purchase the ingredients for dinner, they’d be sitting untouched on the bench when I walked in the door exhausted.
‘Couldn’t you have made a start on dinner?’ I’d sigh.
‘I didn’t know the recipe,’ he’d shrug.
The only two recipes he knew were spaghetti bolognese and pizza – and he always praised himself every time he made the same dish.
I found myself in my fifties, dealing with a chronic health condition that could limit my sex life, with zero support from my husband (stock image posed by models)
He didn’t know how to tidy up or do the laundry either, as it happens. I’d always find wet clothes in the washing machine or in the basket waiting to be put on the line.
For years I’d felt like I had a third child to feed, clean up after, and take care of.
As my actual children matured into adulthood, leaving Jack in their wake, they began to notice it, too.
‘Mum, he communicates like a teenage boy. He’ll either grunt at you or text one-word answers,’ my daughter, now 21, complained to me.
To have my daughter say that to me about her own father was deeply embarrassing.
Jack absolutely adored the kids and was a good dad, but as a husband he was a complete and utter letdown; the definition of a ‘man-child’.
Needless to say, feeling like your husband is your child, not your equal, doesn’t do much for the libido. Our sex life dried up around the time I stopped finding his immature jokes funny.
I’d tried talking to him, explaining how I felt, but it was no use. ‘I didn’t do it!’ were usually the first words out of Jack’s mouth when I tried to broach anything serious. Like a naughty child who’s been accused of stealing a cookie from the kitchen.
In 2020, our marriage reached the point of no return.
I was working ridiculous hours, doing all the housework, taking care of the children (including Jack) – the responsibility for absolutely everything fell squarely on my shoulders and the stress started to take a toll on my health.
My skin became painfully itchy and I wasn’t sleeping well at night. At first, I blamed it on menopause but when the irritating lesions began to spread further over my body, I went to see the doctor.
I was shocked to be diagnosed with a rare skin disease called Lichen Sclerosus.
The painful, itchy rashes were the primary symptom – but I was even more horrified when the doctor told me the patches could spread to my genitals, making sex painful or even impossible.
While there were treatments such as topical steroids, the condition would likely impact me for the rest of my life.
The cause of the condition was largely unknown, but stress was known to exacerbate it.
It was the wake up call I needed.
I was now in my fifties, dealing with a chronic health condition that could limit my sex life, with zero support from my husband.
Not only that, but he was the primary cause of the stress that would make my already painful condition worse.
I knew that this wasn’t what I wanted – or needed – for the rest of my life.
‘I can’t do this anymore,’ I told Jack a few months later. Soon after, I filed for divorce.
Leaving a sexless marriage and finding myself single in my fifties, with a condition that could impact my ability to have sex in the future, I felt miserable.
I’d wasted so many years with Jack and now my years of intimacy might be behind me. It was so utterly unfair.
That said, I felt far too vulnerable to dip a toe back in the dating pool. I didn’t socialise much then, and the apps terrified me, as did the thought of explaining the nature of my skin condition to a new partner.
‘You could always think about hiring an escort,’ my friend suggested one evening after a couple of glasses of wine.
At first I laughed off her suggestion, but as time went on, curiosity got the better of me.
I started to Google escort agencies and came across Her Confidant which was run by a woman who’s passionate about making hiring an escort an empowering experience.
I plucked up the courage to book and appointment, and I was not disappointed!
In the hours I spent with my escort, I was given more attention, care and consideration than I was throughout my entire marriage.
My warning to other women is this: marrying the life of the party might seem like a good idea in your twenties. But when the party’s over, you might just regret it.
*Name has been changed
- As told to Carina Stathis
