I'm reading so many wonderful articles on how to spice up my sex life that I feel remiss in not coming up with some new ideas myself. Yesterday a woman wrote about eating chili peppers off the belly of her partner... a practice that I believe takes the concept of hot sex a little too literally. You would have to be very cautious about where that chili pepper juice ends up.
It seems that this focus on reviving baby boomer sex is a way to defend ourselves against aging, particularly since there is a new study that says menopause occurred because the day we got our first gray hair our man dumped us for someone younger and, from an evolutionary standpoint, our collective uterus eventually gave up the ghost.
Yes, I realize that is a very loose interpretation of the theory.
But if this is true, then perhaps we do need to consider how to stay sexually vibrant so we can rid ourselves of pesky menopausal symptoms. Think about it -- according to this new theory, if we can keep men with us longer, then maybe we can expunge menopause from our lives forever.
Of course, there is a problem with this solution. First of all, it could take thousands of years to work. Secondly, it could mean that we give up menopause for the capacity to stay fertile until the day we die. I think this is a trade that needs to be seriously pondered.
If you were a peddler who rolled into town with your cart and offered a trade -- hot flashes for a newborn screaming at 2:00 a.m. -- I'm not sure I'd make that trade. Instead, I would peer into your cart and see if you might have some nice pans or petticoats or perty trinkets instead.
If I could trade my drying, wrinkling skin for a youthful glow, I'd have to also potentially accept a toddler who is running toward a light socket with a bobby pin or falling down stairs or screaming like a maniac because a sucker is stuck in his hair.
Perhaps I could consider trading a future of adult diapers for those swishing on a cute little bottom running through my house all day and crying all night.
I'm trying to imagine having a child at the age of 70 years old. I would trade the freedom to sit down and watch The Golden Girls without interruption for the opportunity to watch my 16-year-old roll her eyes into her head like Linda Blair because I won't let her go to a party. The fight would go on for hours, but I would stand firm on my 86-year-old legs.
Would the trade be worth the return of monthly cramps?
I must admit that I would like to have the ability to enter a store knowing that I will NOT flip anybody off or ram their cart with mine or trip their running child just because I can't help myself. I used to do that for only three days a month in my youth. Now it's a daily battle.
I don't know. I think I would have to tell the peddler that I've already carried children in my womb, and while feeling them move was miraculous, getting a thrombosed hemorrhoid cut out without medication because I was pregnant, not so much. (P.S. Please do not look up thrombosed hemorrhoid on Google. There are pictures that will burn right through your irises to your brain and never leave.)
And while I miss kissing the back of my childrens' little heads after a bath, I can do that to somebody else's baby and get the same effect. Of course, I was kicked out of CVS the other day for kissing some random baby's head, but still.
While I do love my children, the thought of getting pregnant at the age of 52 is the stuff my nightmares are made of, literally. I dreamt the other night that I was pregnant, and the feeling was worse than that dream in which I forget all semester about a class and find out it is exam time and I have to take the final naked while facing a man-eating tiger. The pregnancy dream is worse than that.
As I ponder my tired, wonderful years as a young mother, I start to think that hot flashes aren't all that bad. And my sex life is as spicy today as it was then, because nothing is sexier than having small children throw up on you, poop on you, cling to you, sweat on you and kiss you with sticky lips only to be followed by a husband who craws in bed and says, "Are you in the mood?"
Because that's what we need... someone else who wants to cling to us at the end of a long, long day.
Juxtaposed to motherhood, menopause is better than I have realized, even though our wild hairs are literal and our skin needs pressing. In this stage of life we can do what we want without worrying about something growing in our womb that will require 20 years of our lives and the majority of our money.
I've had my two kids, and they are perfect. I could not improve upon them.
So, Mr. or Ms. Peddler, I am keeping what I've got. I would rather be barren and brazen than impregnated and perpetually tired. Take your wagon elsewhere, unless you've got some of those perty trinkets I was looking for. Then we can talk.
Earlier on Huff/Post50:
