365 Nights Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Epigraph

  JULY - Fireworks

  AUGUST - Bikini Daze

  SEPTEMBER - It’s Hard to Feel Sexy in a Suburban (But It’s Way Better than a Minivan)

  OCTOBER - Work, Work, Work

  NOVEMBER - Blessed Be the Ties That Strangle . . . I Mean Bind

  DECEMBER - The Ho Ho Ho Horribly Happy Holiday Season

  JANUARY - New Year’s Resolutions and the Seven-Month Itch

  FEBRUARY - The Hallmark Moments

  MARCH - Spring Forward, Falling Back

  APRIL - Spring Training

  MAY - May Flowers . . . I Mean Showers

  JUNE - Wedding Season

  Independence Day!

  Afterword

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

  This book describes the real experiences of real people. The author has disguised the identities of some, and in some instances created composite characters, but none of these changes has affected the truthfulness and accuracy of the story.

  While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for the website or its content.

  Copyright © 2008 by Charla Muller and Betsy Thorpe.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form

  without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in

  violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  The name BERKLEY® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. The BERKLEY design

  is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley trade paperback edition / July 2008

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Muller, Charla.

  365 nights : a memoir of intimacy / Charla Muller with Betsy Thorpe.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-4406-2929-7

  1. Sex in marriage. 2. Married people—Sexual behavior. 3. Married people—Psychology.

  4. Communication and sex. 5. Intimacy (Psychology) 6. Muller, Charla—Diaries. I. Thorpe, Betsy. II. Title.

  HQ31.M79 2008

  306.81092—dc22

  [B] 2008010402

  Most Berkley books are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotions, premiums, fund-raising, or educational use. Special books, or book excerpts, can also be created to fit specific needs.

  For details, write: Special Markets, The Berkley Publishing Group, 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To Brad

  Acknowledgments

  CHARLA MULLER

  When a gal from Charlotte, North Carolina, publishes a book, there are lots of folks to thank:

  I am thankful to my agent, Sharon Bowers at the Miller Agency, for her guidance and support. To Andie Avila at Berkley Books for her gentle and wise counsel. And to the talented Betsy Thorpe, who bumped into my life at an incredibly auspicious time thanks to our mutual friend, Patti. And to all of the aforementioned for taking a chance on me, of all people!

  To my Book Club, a group of bright, passionate women who have been a source of special respite for me over the last fifteen years. To my Tuesday Night Women’s Bible Study Group, who taught me that, in Him, all things are possible, even intimacy every day for a year with your spouse. To the fantastic NBGs for two decades of steadfast support, great laughs, and wonderful friendship. And to those special friends and NBGers who shared their intimate experiences, a special thank-you!

  I would like to thank my dear friends Carole, Missy, and Kathleen (also my sister-in-law), who walked me in from various and sundry cliffs throughout this process and told me time and time again that, of course, I could write a book—as if it’s a perfectly normal thing to do! And to Christy, who still supports me to this day.

  To my mother-in-law, who thinks most everything I do is fantastic, even writing a book about her son’s sex life.

  To my mom and dad, who are a tremendous example of enduring love. I owe them a special note of thanks for entrusting me to write a book that would not embarrass the entire family (How’d I do?). To my brother, one of the most upstanding, compassionate, and superbly funny people I know. To my children, whom I love to the point of ridiculousness. I hope that you are proud of me . . . one day. And to Brad, who embarked not only on a crazy year of intimacy with me, but on the crazy year that followed. Thank you for holding my hand and my heart so carefully these past ten years. You are a great sport and I love you.

  BETSY THORPE

  I would like to thank Charla for having the courage to tell me her wonderful story over sandwiches, and for believing in me to help her “make it work.” Charla, it doesn’t get any more fun than working with you! (And thanks to Patti for suggesting I meet Charla when I moved to Charlotte.)

  To our agent, Sharon Bowers: Thanks for instantly responding to this project with great feedback, superb ideas, and for finding us our wonderful editor . . . Andie Avila. Andie, you believed in this project from the very beginning, and it’s through your enthusiastic stewardship that we are now here in print, sharing Charla and Brad’s story with the world. Thanks for all your thoughtful work, and for the time and care you’ve taken with us.

  To my daughters, Georgia and Lucy: Every day with you is a blessing, and I hope one day (much further in the future) you will read this book and it will help you in your own relationships. Thanks to my supportive parents, Elise and Bob, for your willingness to be there for me at any time of the day, and for all the free babysitting. Thanks to my friends in the South Charlotte Literary Babes’ Club with terrific advice: Tracey, Tracie, Judy, and Emily, and friends far and wide: Kalie, Rosemary, Sarah, Terri, Tina, Nina, Kris, Nancy, Mark, Kendra, Paula, Jane, Heather, and Jenny. Your friendship through the years has been invaluable. And lastly, to my colleagues at Novello Festival Press, Amy Rogers and Lisa Kline—it’s a blast working with you, and thank you for taking on some of my work while I sweated to make this deadline!

  To say yes, you have to sweat and roll up your sleeves and plunge both hands into life up to the elbows.

  —Jean Anouilh


  The Offer

  When I offered my husband sex every day for a year to celebrate his fortieth birthday, he literally fell over. He was so taken by surprise that he actually stumbled over our son’s fire truck, which was lying in the middle of the floor in our den, and landed, with a thud, in his leather chair.

  It was a few weeks before Brad’s birthday. I was confident and excited about telling him my dazzling idea. Likewise, I couldn’t wait for him to accept it.

  I extended my hand to help Brad off the chair and led him to the sofa. I hadn’t thrown the idea in front of him simply to get a reaction or a laugh. So, sitting side by side, I faced him and repeated the offer to him again—this time more slowly and with more gravitas. “Honey, I’d like to give you sex every day for your fortieth birthday.” I closed my eyes, relaxed back into the sofa cushion, and waited. Waited for the shock to wear off and the gloriousness of my offer to sink in. But to my astonishment that didn’t happen. Instead, Brad actually declined my offer of daily intimacy for a year to celebrate his birthday.

  “Do you actually mean you don’t wanna have sex with me every day for a year?” I declared in a loud and rather high-pitched voice. I have to admit, I was close to that weird screeching noise that women are prone to emit when they are rendered to a state of utter and complete disbelief.

  “That’s not exactly true, hon. It’s just that I don’t want you to feel like you have to have sex with me,” Brad said.

  “I’m your wife. Of course I feel like I have to have sex with you. That’s why I married you,” I reasoned.

  “It’s a great idea, I guess . . . I just can’t imagine that you really mean it.”

  I hung in there. “What if I do mean it? What if I really do want to have sex with you every day for a year? I mean, would you really say no to such a thing?” I was appalled at the notion!

  “Of course not. But are you sure you’ve thought through this and what it could mean? Why don’t you think about this some more and we can talk about it later.”

  With that, Brad walked down the hall and our conversation ended. I sat on that couch in the family room, surrounded by pictures of us together on our wedding day, and of the kids at Christmas and on our annual summer vacation in the mountains, stunned. That was it? End of conversation? I gave him the ultimate offer—the stuff of fantasy—and he said, “Yeah, not so much.” Why wasn’t he jumping up and down like a kid in a candy store? Why were there no high fives? No kisses of joy and gratitude, and phrases like, “You’re definitely going to win ‘Wife of the Year’ with this one, honey!”

  Instead, he had calmly walked down the hall, and left me alone. This exchange is a great illustration of why I both love my husband and why I’m befuddled by him. I mean, wouldn’t most husbands have stripped down to their skivvies instantly, swooning over the delicious idea of fulfilling their sexual desires daily? Wouldn’t most men be running down the hall, jerking the covers off the bed, and hopping in, thinking: “The guys at the gym are never gonna believe this”? Well, not the one I married, apparently.

  Brad, who is gifted with an uncanny ability to get along with me and a rather inordinately large dose of common sense, wanted me to think about it. Well, duh, I had been thinking about it, which was why I thought it was such a good idea in the first place! I was a tad bit put off, in fact. Wasn’t he interested? Did he think I couldn’t stick to such an arrangement?

  I didn’t feel rejected by Brad, per se. I know my husband well and think he knows my limits better than I, and was aware that this proposal was a mighty big commitment. His initial reticence wasn’t a commentary on The Gift and his interest in receiving it, but rather on my ability to deliver it. I could have been offended, yes. But I wasn’t—he forced me to think carefully about what I was offering, and the nitty-gritty of how I was going to deliver. Because on some level, there could be cause for concern as I’m a “Big Idea” person, which I used to think was charming but am now realizing can be expensive and often hazardous. I can get caught up in the big picture and ignore the details . . . and then it’s too late. Like our annual family photo (a big idea and real memory maker) that no one in my extended family under the age of six really wants to take (small but important detail when you’re running around the yard corralling little people). Or our trip to New York City to expose our children to “The City That Never Sleeps.” Well, that trip became the trip we’ll never pay off. But I still contend that sometimes Big Picture folks bring a lot to the party.

  So I made a pretense of thinking about it some more. We didn’t talk about it again for a week. But I knew I could and I would deliver the goods. I’m just that kinda gal, or so I thought.

  The idea to be intimate with my husband every day for a year had a few origins. The first was that I wanted to give Brad something original for his fortieth birthday. I wanted to give him a gift that no one else, only I, could give him. And intimacy—any at all—certainly fit that bill. All around us people were doing big, expensive, dramatic things to celebrate their fortieth birthdays, including taking fabulous all-inclusive trips with ten of their favorite couples to the Caribbean, running a fortieth birthday marathon, and receiving a Tar Heel blue convertible. I felt like we needed the gift of connection, a gift for our eight-year marriage and ten-year relationship, and not something that would evaporate once a vacation was over, get tarnished, or leave us with indigestion.

  There was also something special about this birthday. Hitting forty is significant. That number has long been regarded as “middle age” (think how old our parents seemed when they hit forty), and according to urban myth, it’s when men turn to affairs and fast cars, and women to Botox and liposuction. Isn’t the forty mark when all kinds of people act out in loony desperation in order to feel young, fit, and attractive? Given that context, maybe having sex every day with your spouse doesn’t seem all that loony.

  Take away the dread of aging, however, and you get to realize that forty is actually a really cool number. A pregnancy is forty weeks long (although it does seem longer, doesn’t it?). Noah cruised on his ark for forty days and forty nights. Mohammed got his first revelation from an angel at age forty. Christ was tempted in the wilderness for forty days. A cleansing bath (a mikvah) in a Jewish temple is filled with forty gallons of water. Spiritually and scientifically, there’s a lot going on with forty—not the least of which is that you’re halfway to eighty.

  More people than ever before are hitting that eightieth birthday. Today, if you stay married to the same person, you could be married to your spouse for sixty years. Just a few generations back, people got married early, worked themselves silly, and then died. Now, we have to learn to keep a marriage fresh for sixty freakin’ years! New ground, friends. So if you can’t survive the seven-year itch and the fifteen-year hives, you might never see a cheesy but sweet golden anniversary party thrown in your honor.

  For his fortieth, Brad had made plans to celebrate with a rather elaborate golf trip with his three best college buddies. I didn’t begrudge him the trip (the poor guy doesn’t demand much), but I wasn’t in the position to give him any other material gift. No extravagant watch (he doesn’t wear one), no box of über-expensive cigars (doesn’t really smoke them), no new car (he already has a not-so-new car that runs fine). Nor did he really want those things (except maybe the car)—he’s not really into keeping up with all the latest gadgets, or showing off some bling.

  The more I considered the idea of what would make a really special gift for someone’s fortieth year on this planet, the more I concluded that, well, I hoped it would be hard to top intimacy with your spouse every day for a year. Those girlfriends who found out later about my gift to Brad were astonished at the length of The Gift—an entire year? Why not a week, or a month? It was as if they wanted to slap me about the head and yell, “What in heaven’s name were you thinking?”

  Well, here it is: I was thinking big and bold, girls. I wanted to do something so dramatic and different that Brad would never ever pause to rem
ember what I gave him for his fortieth birthday. And since it wasn’t something tangible, so to speak—a watch on your wrist, a car in your garage, a new driver in your golf bag—then the memory of it had to be pretty significant. I never wanted him to put his hand to his chin in a moment of thoughtful recollection about what on earth had happened for his fortieth birthday. No, I wanted this gift to come crashing down on him in all its awesomeness every time he reflected on it. And I wanted him to smile every time he remembered.

  This gift was my personal—very personal—way of showing Brad how really committed I was to our marriage. I had been kicked sideways to the curb by a bout of good old-fashioned depression a couple of years before his fortieth. As depression is so capable of doing, it takes all of your faults and wounds, and wriggles its fingers around to open them up and crushingly reveal them to you. I realized what I was—and more important, was not—made of. And in the landscape of my marriage, I learned that I had married a man so solid, decent, and loving that surely God had a hand in such a lopsided union. Because I’m not sure which is worse—suffering through depression, or watching the person you love struggle with it and take your family life down with it. The ways in which my husband treated me in this state, with such unconditional support and gentle guidance, were awesome. I’m not sure I could have done the same for him in a crisis. In a weird way, I am thankful it was me and not him who had to struggle with depression, because I would be an impatient, frustrated, and smart-alecky spouse, nagging him to just get over it already.

  After a year (or two) of being desperately off-kilter, this offer was an acknowledgment that I, too, was committed to the idea of reestablishing a flourishing, happy, and nurturing marriage. And while we had arrived at a comfortable status quo, I had a feeling that our status quo wasn’t cutting it. Because of many expected and unexpected tugs and pulls life had thrown our way, intimacy had ended up like that box of Girl Scout cookies in the back of the freezer, hidden behind the frozen pizzas. You know they’re still there, but you’re not enjoying them as much as you could. Digging them out from under those pork tender-loins can be a hassle.