It happens in every relationship at some point. Typically, the first sign is about six months in when you’ve finally gotten comfortable with the idea of your significant other, you’ve packed on close to five pounds and suddenly look up on Friday night and notice that you’re in your pajamas, your hair is in a pony tail and it’s 10 p.m. and both you and your significant other are dozing on the couch as another episode of that show with the models, and money and idiot people telling the bald guy “Deal or No Deal” is  playing on the television.

What happened? A few months ago you would have been in front of the mirror, shaking your thing, putting on makeup. You both would have been out dancing, eating, rolling in around 2 a.m. But slowly the nights got shorter and excuses like, “We don’t need to waste money going out,” “I’m so tired. Let’s have a quiet night,” and “We can just stay home and cuddle,” are now a part of your couple vocabulary.

But it’s OK right? I mean. He doesn’t mind that you’re a little less posh now. He says he likes a little extra jiggle in your wiggle and doesn’t shrink back when he sees your real face zits and all. It’s true love. Look at him on the couch. He’s leaned over the arm rest, a little drool is dripping down, he jolts a little and snort-scratch-flops back into place. How cute.

Lame? No way. You’re just taking a break from the wild side and enjoying each other’s time.

Flash forward a few years and you are now Mrs. Snort Scratch Flop and it’s not just a random Friday anymore, but suddenly your Saturday night has also been hijacked. In fact, you can’t even remember the last time you came home at 2 a.m. (Actually, you can and you remember it took you the whole next day to recover.) You find yourself in bed at midnight on Saturday night with a book complaining about your idiot neighbors coming home drunk at night, do they have to be so loud? Jeez. People are trying to sleep.

The sad part is you don’t even have kids to blame for your lameness. It just happened. He’s even asked about it, “I’m just lame,” he says compared to (insert any man in his life who seems even slightly cooler including the single/divorced/younger/thinner/golfer/runner/ and co-worker with more hair.)

Like a good wife, you assured him he’s not, “Honey, you’re not lame. I mean, do you really want to be like (insert name of idiot cooler man he references)?”

But secretly you know the truth. You are lame. Not the kind of lame couple who matches outfits out in public yet, but now that you’re able to call out the demon for what it is—how can you be healed?

Maybe you’ve secretly toyed with the idea of getting pregnant. Hey, at least it would give you something to do on a Saturday night? And you could blame your lack of fun and friends on the kid. You’ve looked into clubs or groups but the time commitment—do you really want to be a part of the local scrap book guild?—and the fact that you’re not really a club kind of gal has stopped you.

It’s not easy admitting that the lack of fun in your life has less to do with a lack of fun in life but more to do with you. And cable television. But when you reach these points in your relationship—and it happens again and again—it’s harder and harder to address.

How do you accept your lameness? How do you justify a Saturday night spent watching the History Channel? And how do you not take it out on your mate when that inner rebel 20 something is screaming for release in your 30/40/50 something body?

I’m not sure what the answer is or how best to call out my lame demon in the name of fun, but I spent most of the weekend angry at myself for not being cooler, younger, hipper, chicer etc. And have determined that lame is a matter of perspective.

Do I wish my social calendar was full? That my phone as blowing up with calls from friends, “Hey, where are you?”  That our date nights were out of this world craziness followed by a night of sweaty passion?

Sure. But here’s the thing. I am where I am in my life. And we are where we are in our relationship. And lame as it may be, it’s not up for anyone else to judge including me.

So far all my lame ladies (and gents) out there, stay strong! Wear you pj’s with pride. Play your Farmville on Friday’s like a crazy MoFo! Match your outfits. Talk about your cats. Enjoy early dinners and movie nights at home. And bitch about the neighbor girls who come in late and puke on the curb. And remember that you are leading your life—not the neighbor girl’s or your friends on Facebook who always seem to be having more fun than you.

I’m OK with lame, but I’m not ready to give up that 21-year-old party queen just yet. She just doesn’t get to make as many appearances or use her credit card at the bar or wear as short of skirts as she used to any more. But she lives. And she has tons of photos of her cats. And she and her husband love The History Channel.  And she is not lame!

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