I think my husband and I have a fantastic sex life. Until, of course, I watch something like "Grey’s Anatomy." Where everyone is getting it on like bunnies.
Hot, romantic, casual, funny, spontaneous sex.
And then there’s the Housewives of . . . oh any fucking city, with their silicone lubricated sex.
Jesus, there was even a bit on Regis and Kelly.
It turns out that everyone else is not just having sex constantly. No, it is some kind of romantic, sexy, hot interlude. There are chocolate covered strawberries, hot baths and rose petals.
My question? Where are the kids banging on the door?
You can’t toss me on the bed, cuz it’s covered with unfolded laundry. (Dear God – is it even clean laundry???)
Kitchen table ? Covered with the fucking science project.
And the fantasy that my husband will pick me up and carry me to some clean surface is kinda shattered. Do you know how old he is and how much I weigh? #arthritis #nothappening
Our lives are more like this:
Husband, home from work, late #taxseason, dishing out leftovers from last night’s takeout. I’m on all fours, sorting through the kids backpacks for the latest lost permission slip. If he leaned over, brushed my hair aside and tried to kiss my neck, I would probably topple over (cuz I’m kinda like a cow, I tip easily) and if he could finally get up off the floor (hopefully HE’S not injured, cuz he’s no spring chicken) I would be pissed.
I would be pissed because now I can’t remember who we decided is picking up the kids tomorrow. Cuz there’s the track meet, trying to be coordinated with soccer practice, and the other one’s ballet class and saxophone lessons. Just typing that makes my juices dry up.
Like I said, a real magical moment.
There are several factors working against me and this bizarre goal I have of knocking it out like bunnies.
Number One – I am old. Old and tired. Tired. Dead. Tired.
Number Two – Menopause is a gift that keeps on giving. Oh wait? It doesn’t give… anything – you know what I’m talking about. Now before the big moment we have to go to the store. Not for condoms. Cuz that ship has sailed. No. Now? We go for lubricant. (Sadly, not cuz I have a high Freak Number. You know, like you know, those Real Housewives of Atlanta, Candy Coated Nights!)
Number Three – Kids.
Number Four – Kids.
Number Five – Soccer practice, ballet, piano lessons, sax lessons, working with the tutor.
Number Six – How exhausted I am after soccer, ballet, piano, sax, tutor, showers, teeth brushing and oh shit . . . I guess they need to be fed dinner also? (So demanding, those kids.)
Number Seven – Work. Mine. His. All consuming. All the time.
Number Eight – My slight problem with TV watching. I mean if there is something new on Bravo that night …
Number Nine – The 10:00 p.m. knock on the door. "Mommy, I’m worried about something." "Mommy my leg hurts from soccer." "Mommy my sister is asleep and I’m lonely. How come you guys get to watch TV and we have to go to bed?"
Number Ten – Did I mention I’m old and tired?
So when I hear people talking about doing it a few times a week, I just want to scream: A week? Did I hear you right? Don’t you mean a few times a MONTH?
And by few times, don’t you mean .032?
Cuz me and my husband? We’re bunnies too. Just you know, the old ones you find in the petting zoo that have given up. #ButOhSoHappy