Maybe this should be menopause symptom number 40 or something: The end of foreplay as we once knew it.
A couple of days ago, Carolyn wrote a tad (forgive me, dear friend), but she wrote a tad too realistically about romance for my taste. And that’s fine. She doesn’t pen romance novels for a living anymore. I do. So I still BELIEVE, Carolyn (and George Clooney, if you’re listening). I believe in Romance. Please do not louse it up for me. If Carolyn is correct, and my husband picks his nose in his truck, I do not want to know it, and I do not want to see it. I don’t care how long two people have been married; there are things that should be picked only in private. (The same goes for you in your Beamer, George. Both hands on the wheel.)
And yet, Carolyn’s blog did get me thinking. Things have changed around here; I have noticed it. An example:
When I was forty-one, I was chatting with a group of women who mentioned—several times—how old we were all getting. I went home and told my husband, who placed his hands, those strong and tender, big latte-toned hands with the sprinkle of caramel hair on his manly-man knuckles, on either side of my face. He gave me the soul-mate gaze, and he said:
“Just tell them you’re my wine.”
Did he get lucky that night? Oh my, reader, yes he did.
But that was almost nine years ago. For eight of those years, I have been a mother and for five I have been in menopause. Probably so has he.
Skip ahead to last week when I donned a hot pink sleeveless tee shirt to show off the upper arms I have been diligently sculpting all summer. (It’s hard to sculpt mashed potato, but I’ve made some serious headway.)
“Hi, sweetie,” I said to my beloved, flexing and giving him a seductive wink as I pretended to reach for something on a high shelf (still the only way I can get my delts to pop, and, okay, we weren’t near a shelf, but I think I pulled it off).
He gave me a long, considering look.
Grrrrr. I love that look. You, sir, are about to get lucky for the second time in nine years.
“Honey,” he said in his velvet, Elvis baritone, the voice that still makes me shiver, “you could use a new bra. I don’t think that one is doing what it’s supposed to.”
That is NOT foreplay!
Now he’s going to have to wait another nine years.
And I may need a new career.
Carolyn, you up for a trip to Victoria’s Secret?
Wendy– sadder and, uh, apparently lower than I used to be.