I'm Not Depressed, I'm Unsatisfied

My husband convinced me to start a newsletter. 

Every night, he comes home from work and finds me cross-legged on the couch finishing up my work for the day. Dinner is usually ready or heating up in the oven. Marc sets the table, or sometimes we’ll make our own plates and bring them to the couch while we mindlessly scroll through Netflix or Hulu or HBO Max (the options are endless) in hopes of finding a show we both agree on. When that doesn’t happen, we choose something mundane to play in the background and finish up a few work-related tasks. And then we talk about how our nights would be so different as newlyweds if we had somewhere to go. Over the last couple of months, I’ve been feeling restless. 

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