Ha! Ha! Ha! Or, I'm Only Happy When it Rains
Wal-Mart, in its evilness, had a santa garter belt set on display yesterday. Near the Aisle. In the Women's section.
I could've choked.
Not only was I in the most Vile Place on the Planet the day before Christmas Eve, but while there, I was having my sexual inadequacy dangled in front of me in lurid crimson poly-blend panne velvet and the faux-est fur imaginable.
We went to the Panthers game today (Cowboys won, 24-20) and I actually toyed with the idea of pulling out this little red camisole and panty set I got from Target back when I thought sex would be a regular and problem-free part of my marriage. That was around 6 or so.
it's 8:19 p.m.
My husband is in the living room, watching Sportscenter, Sportsnight, Sports-sandwich, Fried Sports or some other stupidity.
And I am in no mood to be humiliated by wearing red scraps of lace and (horrors) a santa hat. It's just ridiculous. Unless one is a Frederick's of Hollywood model. In which case, it is a job requirement, and Mandatory.
Mom, well-meaning woman that she is, bought me an Oprah Book about living your best life. Of course, there's nicely-put information about dieting and even 'sexual confidence.' Which, apparently are interchangeable.
Maybe I'm rebelling with the weight. Maybe I need/want an excuse to be miserable, so I do things like eat entire packets of instant potatoes for dinner instead of broccolli (in fact, I would love to have broccolli more often, but C. cooks, and doesn't do vegetables much. And as with sex, it would be rude to complain.)
I see my breasts expanding and softening and really can't blame myself for not being interested in sex. I mean, I can't be on top -- how can I have a decent sex life? I've forgotten what mental foreplay feels like. I don't remember the last time I laughed (sardonic chuckling to oneself doesn't count) during sex or in bed.
One of my married friends from college thought I was kidding when I said, "If he got it somewhere else, I wouldn't be upset. In fact, I'd be a little relieved."
I wasn't kidding.
At all.
I could've choked.
Not only was I in the most Vile Place on the Planet the day before Christmas Eve, but while there, I was having my sexual inadequacy dangled in front of me in lurid crimson poly-blend panne velvet and the faux-est fur imaginable.
We went to the Panthers game today (Cowboys won, 24-20) and I actually toyed with the idea of pulling out this little red camisole and panty set I got from Target back when I thought sex would be a regular and problem-free part of my marriage. That was around 6 or so.
it's 8:19 p.m.
My husband is in the living room, watching Sportscenter, Sportsnight, Sports-sandwich, Fried Sports or some other stupidity.
And I am in no mood to be humiliated by wearing red scraps of lace and (horrors) a santa hat. It's just ridiculous. Unless one is a Frederick's of Hollywood model. In which case, it is a job requirement, and Mandatory.
Mom, well-meaning woman that she is, bought me an Oprah Book about living your best life. Of course, there's nicely-put information about dieting and even 'sexual confidence.' Which, apparently are interchangeable.
Maybe I'm rebelling with the weight. Maybe I need/want an excuse to be miserable, so I do things like eat entire packets of instant potatoes for dinner instead of broccolli (in fact, I would love to have broccolli more often, but C. cooks, and doesn't do vegetables much. And as with sex, it would be rude to complain.)
I see my breasts expanding and softening and really can't blame myself for not being interested in sex. I mean, I can't be on top -- how can I have a decent sex life? I've forgotten what mental foreplay feels like. I don't remember the last time I laughed (sardonic chuckling to oneself doesn't count) during sex or in bed.
One of my married friends from college thought I was kidding when I said, "If he got it somewhere else, I wouldn't be upset. In fact, I'd be a little relieved."
I wasn't kidding.
At all.
posted by Gina at 8:16 PM
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