Colt was only a few months old. His acid reflux was keeping us up at night. I hadn’t slept more than a few hours in…
I stumbled into the break room at work for my morning coffee. Half conscious. It took every ounce of energy I had just to shmear my bagel.
I overheard two colleagues discussing an article they’d read on weight loss. How in a couple of weeks you could lose two dress sizes. I looked down at my sagging, pitiful belly and moved in on the conversation. “What do I have to do to lose two dress sizes in two weeks?” I asked desperately.
The women laughed and said, “Sex. An hour a day.” With an unfamiliar perkiness.
Sex. An hour a day. An HOUR. EVERY day?
Who does that, I thought. I actually said it out loud. They stared.
Defensively I countered. But there’s laundry. So much laundry. There’s a ring around the toilet in the guest bathroom. Colt is teething. My mother-in-law is coming…
The women looked at me like they felt so bad for me. I should mention that both of these women were in their mid-forties. Childless. Not married. And apparently at their sexual prime.
“An hour is nothing. Especially if you have toys.” They giggled like school girls. “Just don’t forget the batteries.”
Thanks for the advice.
If you want to know real panic, try realizing you’ve forgotten your baby wipes. And your child has just had a diarrhea explosion. In Target.
Forgetting to buy batteries for sex toys is hardly at the forefront of my mind.
Mostly I’m just jealous I guess. I look forward to the days when Todd and I can laze around all day with the “Bunny tickler” and the “Vibrorattler.”
I’ll be so freaking skinny.