(Start with "Monday" if you can. No, I know. But this Monday, for some reason I was actually lucid...One might argue...coherent even.... And if you agree, please do subscribe to this rollicking good time of a blog. There's a lot of bonus fun that will come your way on the weekend.) So, what were we talking about? Oh right. How important Valentine's Day is to couples dealing with infertility. So important in fact to reignite that lovey-dovey spark that infertility keeps blowing out (the bastard), that I proposed an entire Valentine's Month.
Then I mentioned how all of my life I've had this fantasy of wearing a sexy negligee and then an emergency erupts and Mr's. January thru April from the firemen's calendar rush in to rescue me.
Except the way the fantasy ended up playing out in real life, I bought this Valentine's Day night gown nightmare contraption and couldn't get into it without cutting off the circulation to no less than six parts of my body. It turned more into a Stephen King movie than the soft porn flick I'd been aspiring to.
Part of the issue was, I couldn't figure out where anything went. That's how Valentine's Day "sleep wear" is: There are holes where there shouldn't be and no holes where there should be. And feathers tickling me in bad spots, and itchy lace unofficially serving as dental floss in places, where, I don't care what his mother told him, I have no teeth.
In anticipation of one memorable Valentine's Day, I bought crotchless panties. Boy was that embarrassing. Not because I bought them but because I forgot they were supposed to be crotchless and tried to return them. "Ma'am, this underwear is ripped. Hello? Where's the crotch?" (As I held them up to the customer service person, looking at her through the featured attraction.)
I felt so taken advantage of....not by my husband, by the store: "Hearts and Other Parts". I felt taken advantage of because I paid $35 for them. The same underwear with the crotch was $22. I paid $13 extra for the frken hole.
Another big problem for sexy lingerie is, if you're old enough to spell the word "gravity", you're probably too old to wear it. I think I'm in decent shape (here's the part where I lower my voice and look away from the person to whom I'm speaking)... "for my age". But put me into an itsy bitsy teeny weeny red heart shaped bedtime bikini and I look like a little Jewish Buddha.
I look in the mirror (big mistake) and ponder what would best solve the problem of the four car pile-up in my mid-section: A breast lift, a tummy tuck...or would it be too confusing for a surgeon to sort out where the top ended and the bottom began? Should I just have it all removed and get my neck stapled to my hips? Or do I need a baker to come at me with a rolling pin and smooth out my happy loaf?
My husband watched the show "The Doctors" the other day. And a woman asked about her apparently sagging private parts. I'm not sure how you'd ever realize such a thing was happening. Certainly this woman is way more observant than I am...or has a lot more time to kill. So I asked my husband if he'd, by chance, observed that part of me falling from grace. He said:"That's ridiculous. All I've ever noticed sagging are your boobs and your ass."..........Nice.
Listen I gotta go. I have to find a clean sheet. I can't let my husband sleep on the couch without one. It's a new couch. B'dum bum.
I'll talk with ya again tomorrow.