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Why Do the Best Stories Come From My Divorced Pals?

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Why does it seem that the best stories come from my friends who are either 1) newly-single and doing the "Divorced Girls Gone Wild" thing, or 2) well past their post-divorce dating and annoyingly happy with their new boyfriend? Thank God for my good friend who falls somewhere in between, and who, after one Lemondrop Martini, will share stories that, if publicized, would get her kicked out of the Cougar club.

And while you may be saying to yourself, "Sure, your friend, huh?" I assure you, it's not me. I could never write this about myself because I have a teenage son who would be more embarrassed by his mother than usual if he thought this were about me.

So... I have this friend. This divorced friend. This divorced, Cougar friend. And until a few days ago, her young boyfriend had been traveling the entire month. Because they have only been dating for four years, they are still at the stage when they can hardly wait to "reunite." They planned a quiet evening when no one was home, shared a glass of wine and some spicy Thai food ... but something went terribly wrong.

During their reunion, which, contrary to what my friend's married friends might think, was not "hanging-from-the-chandelier"-type reuniting, but just a regular girl-on-top reunion, my friend's lower back suddenly seized up.

She had a spasm, which, coincidentally, sort of rhymes with orgasm.

My friend does not think this is funny.

And although spasm and orgasm sound similar, having the former when you are expecting the latter is not a pleasant turn of events.

At least, that's what my friend told me.

And while the reaction to a spasm and an orgasm may even resemble each other: shuddering, moaning, crying out, "Oh, My God!" the two are not even remotely related physically. Still, because of this resemblance, it did take her boyfriend a few minutes to detect that something was not quite right. (Of course, she was trying to quietly "breathe through it" so as not to ruin the, uh, moment.)

That's what she said.

So when the finale of their reunion ended rather abruptly on the heels of this org-spasm, she slid to the floor and managed to get flat on her back, thinking she would just lay there until she died of humiliation or until her boyfriend realized that she could no longer move her body from the waist down.

After an hour, when she could move a little bit without gasping at the sharp pain, she did some stretching, icing and groaning (which at other times might have been construed as foreplay) until she was able to move back to the bed for a night of Advil-induced sleep.

The next day, she decided to work from home so that every hour she could get up from her computer where she toils as a freelance ... accountant, and repeat her regimen of stretch-ice-groan. While stretching, she thought she would turn on the television to drown out her four-letter expletives and self-indulgent cries of, "Why me?"

It occurred to her that she might become the oldest woman ever to adopt an abstinence-only, born-again-virgin lifestyle. "Where do they sell those damn promise rings?" she wondered.

Hey, I'm just telling it like she told me.

While stretching on the floor and seriously wondering if she would have to lie there until someone came home, she tuned in to a talk show hosted by someone named Wendy Williams. She had never heard of Wendy Williams, but she immediately liked her candidness. She thought Wendy looked like the kind of woman who actually could have the hanging-from-the-chandelier kind of sex. But she wondered as she studied Wendy, are those her real cheekbones? How did she get to be so damn tall? Where did she get those enormous breasts? Is Wendy Williams a transvestite?"

Remember, she was under the influence of muscle relaxers.

Coming to her senses, she realized she was getting Wendy Williams and RuPaul confused. Don't laugh -- there's a whole website dedicated to this confusion. I know because my friend told me when she Googled it.

After nearly an hour of physical therapy and channel-surfing, she realized that every other commercial on daytime TV is from a law firm declaring that they will help those who have been injured get bigger settlements, more recovery time, a reality TV show.

That's when it occurs to her: "Hey, I'm injured. Who can I sue?"

The problem is, the only person complicit in her injury is her young boyfriend.

Still, she thinks she may have a case. In order to sue, you'd need to prove negligence. He'd been traveling for three weeks -- that alone is grounds for abandonment, isn't it? And, knowing full well that he is much younger than she is, he should have a) started with a cardio warm-up; b) ensured proper hydration; c) led her in some stretching exercises; d) taken it upon himself to do most of the "work."

At least, that was her argument.

Upon further reflection, she realized that her boyfriend will be pissed -- and mortified -- if she files suit against him. It must have been the combination of muscle relaxers and wine that made her think of such a thing in the first place.

Wondering if she will ever again be intimate without her low back forcing her to scream (and then pretending that scream was actually due to the throes of ecstasy, not agony) she calls her mom for advice.

Her mom picks up, gasping for breath, explaining that she can't talk right now because she just threw out her back putting away the groceries.

That's it! She'll sue her parents. They both have bad backs. Did they ever once stop to consider their genetic predisposition to ruining her sex life? Certainly that's grounds for a law suit.

Satisfied, she smiles. Because she knows that her parents will settle out of court just to keep the word "orgasm" out of her blog. Oops, I mean, the papers. At least that's what my friend told me.