Rob's and my couple's therapist suggested the choice I face isn't between our current relationships on the one hand, and separate futures on the other, but between a new relationship together on the one hand, and separate futures on the other.

Oh, right. I don't have to settle for our relationship status quo; if I choose to stay, it should be for a better, healthier relationship. While this is not earth shattering, it felt new, and gave me pause. I guess I had been in a rut thinking the relationship was unchangeable and therefore doomed. Not so?

After this suggestion, I spent a good day thinking, nah — there's no way Rob can change. And the trauma between us is irrevocable and can't be healed.

But then I thought of all the good changes Rob has already made and decided he would be capable of it. That lasted through a second day. But something still irked me. Even if change for the better were possible between us, I still had misgivings. What were they?

They were my dreams. My dreams of independence, the freedom of living on my own terms — without the guilt and the fighting and the worry — and the pride that would come of humble self-sufficiency.

These dreams of mine are set in the near future; I imagine enjoying this independence while I can still pass for the kind of young that gets away with putting up visitors on a futon rather than in a well-appointed guest room, that travels from hostel to hostel and is not decades older than the other guests.

This is it — I feel I'm in a race against time. Sure, independence at any age will be wonderful, but my particular dreams I want to live out, well, now.

This reminds me of Harry Burns's loving tirade at the end of When Harry Met Sally: "When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible."

Soul searching and self-knowledge are good things, right? But if you can't get too much of a good thing, why am I tired of the pursuit of my true feelings, ready to give up on couple's therapy?

I'm going crazy from broken-record thinking, and pretty sure my best confidants are ready to flee at my next mention of these problems. I need answers. A divorce article I recently read pointed out that while contemplating separation over an extended period of time, you put yourself in a state of prolonged heightened awareness.

Heightened awareness. Helpful, right? It went further: indecision is an opportunity to contemplate every side of the issue. Great! But then it switched gears: at this time one does not think clearly or logically, and might not employ sound judgment. Beware of your thoughts. So which is it?

Well, of course it's both. I'm aware. And this awareness feels heightened — if, by "heightened" one means ever-present, obsessive, and anxiety-provoking. What am I aware about? That I'm not able to make a clear judgment about my situation. Circles again. All in all, I'd kind of like a break from thinking at all.

As any sometime-reader here knows, I feel guilty and ungrateful for wanting to leave Rob after he has been such a great comfort and support when I've needed it.

Recently a reader asked when Maya was going to start loving Maya. Indeed! As I pine over the hurt I might cause this nice man, and reconsider leaving him, I'm in danger of sacrificing my worth, potential, and dreams to protect his feelings. Not much self-love in evidence here.

And the fact is, I have done just as much for Rob as he has for me. Why don't I give myself that credit? While he helped me through depression, showed me how to get on track with money, and supported me through my parents' divorce and father's illness, I helped him leave an anxiety-provoking job and make a very successful career change. I refused to allow him to continue neglecting his health and made him start visiting a doctor and dentist regularly. I strongly encouraged him to find hobbies (he is now well into Tai Chi) after many of his friends relocated out-of-state and he was drinking alone and heavily. Most importantly, I started him on his pursuit of therapy, from which he is reaping benefits. That's not nothing!

But rather than growing together through our mutual support during life trials, we seem to have become two new people who don't need the other the way we did when we first married. It's a terrible irony that we helped each other grow and change, and now our new personalities don't seem to need what the other can offer.

Is it time to accept we've changed, say thank you, and move on? One thing is clear, I will continue this investigation with a healthy dose of self love. Maya comes first.

I've been thinking about Rob's and my past a lot lately. Dating him was fun.

He was a great comfort, maybe because he presented solutions to my biggest problems. I felt isolated and a bit depressed; he helped strengthen my connection to mutual friends. I was living paycheck to paycheck; he fronted me cash when things got tight. I craved a love connection; he was available, and horny as hell.

Indeed, before dating, in the very beginning, what is now a quagmire was just pure and simple lust.

Rob was in the midst of a rash of one-night stands when we hooked up. I didn't know this, and expected a repeat performance. He complied, but it didn't evolve quickly enough for me.

Rather than building a connection, we just sort of repeated the one-night stand. I tired of meeting for what was only pre-sex drinks. "Whoa," I said, and announced I was done unless we added dinner or a movie to the agenda. He balked, and I figured that was the end of it.

Instead, Rob called a few days later to ask me out to a movie. He was probably just giving me what I wanted so he could get an easy fix. (He says he doesn't remember.)

In any case, I so desperately sought validation then that I took his invitation as a declaration of intention. He heard me, I thought. I had been deemed worthy of attention beyond the bedroom. We started dating.

Of course, dating gave way to marriage, and along the way the sex waned and now we have none at all. What is a confused marriage could have been a cherished memory of a fun fling, no strings attached.

I wonder if my self-love were enough back then, would I not have caved to his too-little, too-late attention, and would I have left it at that?

Rob has a boyish charm. Soon after we met, I came to adore him. But his childlike approach to the world later became a turn-off.

Imagine a guy who excitedly coos at cats and dogs, exclaiming "hello!" in a loud and squeaky baby voice to all that pass by. Sweet. But he also has a cache of "punny" one-liners that by now I've heard two million times each.

And there are the dances — his repertoire includes the "I got a raise" dance, "It's the weekend" dance, and "We're going on vacation" dance. You get the idea. It's as if he were a 10-year-old performing for his aunts and uncles after a holiday meal. Constantly.

While this was fine when I was younger and — let's face it — a bit messed up and needing attention myself, now it's terribly annoying. Of course, the behavior belies a lack of confidence. The boyish charm disarms and deflects attention from his true feelings and anxiety. I see that, and I have great compassion for his discomfort. But at our age?

I want a partner who can stand next to me to meet life head on. I'm all for celebrating with childlike excitement, but I also want to be able to enjoy dinner parties next to a confident and calm man capable of sophisticated conversation.

I don't want to journey through life like a mother trailing a child entertainer by the hand. I want a man I don't have to raise myself. Cute boy or confident man? I have a strong attraction to the latter. Can you blame me?

Regarding the decision to separate, a fellow FWW blogger told me that for her "It's a matter of discomfort having to surpass fear." Very wise. On the days I am certain leaving is the right thing to do though I can't quite do it, the underlying message here is my only comfort: the fear that keeps me stuck is not strange or unusual, and not something only I struggle with.

In an early job interview, an influential editor asked me how I felt about self-help books. This was more than a decade ago, and trying to impress her with an erudite reply, I told her I wasn't into them. She responded that the genre was poised to be the fastest growing in the English language market. Oops.

While that job didn't pan out, her prediction did. The number of titles purporting to help fix everything from low self-esteem to relationships skyrocketed, and people continue to buy them in droves. Apparently, millions of us feel stuck in some way. I am not alone. 

"You aren't on anybody's schedule but your own," another supportive blogger wrote. Indeed, there are people out there who seem to know exactly how "stuck" feels. And more than any book I've read, the kind voices in this community lift me up when I'm uncertain even about my own uncertainty. This brings me more patience. And more time. Thank you.

The Foils (I first introduced them in "Meet the Foils") recently visited the city for the weekend, two of their four kids in tow.

The Foils are a lovely couple, and they have achieved everything Rob and I cannot — the gaggle of happy and healthy children, the strong family bond, and the clear mission to ride the ups and downs in their marriage, come what may. I can't really relate to all that togetherness, and it gives me serious doubts about my marriage.

Rob and I took charge of the kids Saturday while their parents attended a wedding. We went to the zoo, indulged in ice cream, rode the train (to kids from the country, subways are wondrous), and enjoyed a festive Mexican dinner. An incredible day.

I expect the kids talked about their city adventures during the entire seven-hour ride home with their parents.

Of course, kids must feel safe and secure to enjoy themselves in new territory. That's not easy when you're not their parents. So it's all the more precious that Rob and I pulled that off together. But I still don't want to have kids with him.

I'm in my mid-30s with a bit of time to spare, so perhaps I will be a mother in the next chapter of my life?

Or so I've been hoping. Yesterday a friend in the 30th week of her second pregnancy said she must endure more monitoring and tests this time around because she is considered by the medical establishment to be of "Advanced Maternal Age." What? I guess sooner than later, I need to move on. 


I avoided couples therapy for years, worried I'd be found the villain in the story. After all, I am the one who feels dissatisfied. The recent dearth of sex is due to my disinterest. And while I can no sooner fathom sticking my tongue in his mouth than licking a tiger's butt, Rob says he'd love to make it with me. Ew!

I quietly toyed with the idea leaving, and I brought up the idea of trial separation. I'm the one who dreams of being single and exploring the world anew, with no ring.

I imagine simple luxuries will be more meaningful because I will be affording them (if barely) on my own. My apartment will be humble, but it will be mine — no husband in sight to subsidize fancy meals out, fundraising dinners, or even hardcover paperbacks from the bookstore! (Back to waiting for the paperback releases.)

The way therapy played out, however, I saw how we've equally damaged "us." Petty, but this realization saves me a bit of guilt and stress. And, my care for Rob ever-present despite our troubles, I was relieved to tell him the hurtful details of my side of the story in a safe place where he was supported by a listener who had the protection of his ego in mind perhaps more than I.

We've had only one session, but it was promising. Not because it set our relationship on the road to recovery, but because it revealed a path toward a better us — separate or apart.

If any of you fellow contemplators are similarly avoiding "the couch," I challenge you to reconsider.

Though tentative about commencing a trial separation from Rob, I recently undertook an apartment search. After finally graduating from browsing listings to meeting potential apartment-mates on-site, I hit a wall: Apparently thirty-something women leaving a troubled marriage are not considered great apartment-mate material.

This was a terrible eye-opener about the stigma I might have to face down the road, but given my uncertainty about leaving Rob, it was kind of nice that the next step — and whether or not to take it — was out of my control.

How convenient to avoid an inner struggle over whether it's time to leave or not — let someone else provide the answer!

Yesterday, however, some nice women in an adorable apartment nearby decided I'm a "good fit." They didn't pry far into my current living situation or personal life, and so the fact that I'd be in the middle of a separation isn't exactly on the table. But their age and respectful reserve make me think they wouldn't unfairly judge my ability to be a roommate with a year's lease by my unsuccessful attempt to choose a life partner.

Now it seems I have to similarly convince the building management company. No doubt much will be revealed about my situation in the "extremely thorough background check" I've been told to expect. Scary. But also a relief: This means I'm still not exactly in control of taking the next step. I guess I'm not quite ready to take the wheel.

An old friend living far away in my home state just wrote: "Word on the street is you and Rob are separating." Readers of this blog know there's no one more ambivalent about such a proposition than I. "Waver" might as well be my middle name. So where did this definitive "word" about my separation come from?

Perhaps it started out as truth -Rob and I talk about a trial separation — and then got twisted into something more spectacularly conclusive. Remember the child's game "telephone," where we would laugh at the unintentionally skewed outcome of a simple statement whispered from one person to the next? Not so funny now.

It's curious, too, that "word" could have spread so far. I've shared my story with only a few confidants (none of whom have a connection to that old friend) and you readers (who know me only by my pseudonym).

I once read about a theory purporting the ability to gossip was once an evolutionary advantage. In primitive social structures, gossip was a helpful tool in understanding and navigating social hierarchies, and social status determined access to resources in lean times (which in turn affected health and ability to pass on genes).

Seems to me a community in upstate New York inherited some pretty hardy gossip genes. However, when applied today to the marriage status of a native daughter now hundreds of miles away, their skill seems wasted. I'm pretty sure their ability to thrive doesn't depend on my marriage status. Sheesh.