Now, Where'd I Put That Dang Libido?
I would consider tolerating Brad Pitt’s skid marks. Maybe.
I am so tired of reading about how women's libidos fail because we are self-conscious about our aging bodies or that our monthly cycles make us irrational and crazy. Sure, we have hormones and we get older, but so do men. Oh sorry, you guys hadn't heard this? I hate to be the one to break the news, but women aren't the only ones who get wrinkles and bellies and unruly gray hairs. Crazy, right?
Your sex life doesn't suck because your wife is insecure. It sucks because you walk around in oversized stained T-shirts and inside-out briefs that sag like an empty scrotum on your ass.
It's true, I should be totally turned on by the way you ignore me while deleting spam from your cell phone, but something in me thinks there may be something missing.
What is it? It MUST be that I'm in a steep and steady decline and biologically less-interested in sex.
Or maybe it's the way your filthy clothes never quite make it into the hamper, and form a Hansel and Gretel like trail down the hall. Or perhaps it's your cute little habit of bringing home lunch containers from a month ago filled with fuzzy green mold. Oh, and don’t forget the pile of balled-up moist socks next to the front door and the half-eaten plate of nachos the dog dragged onto the rug after you fell asleep watching some dumb show about space.
It must be that I'm suffering from a lack of self-confidence in the way I look naked. Yes, that’s definitely it.
That or the yucky face you shot at my latest Antoni in the Kitchen recipe is making me want to punch you. I'm trying to prepare delicious, healthy options for our family and you just want to eat overstuffed meat burritos dipped in lard and cheese while talking about how you stopped putting vanilla in your lattes and lost five pounds last week.
Yes, I suppose the ten pounds I can't manage to lose after giving birth must be making me tense. My growing irritation couldn't possibly have anything to do with the fact that you pointed out how much bigger and saggier my left boob is as I stepped out of the shower yesterday.
"Getting old is funny, isn't it?" you chuckled. Totally. Now back away slowly before I elbow you in the throat.
Nothing is as sexy as a man who grunts and groans when I forget to flush a pee, yet takes a 30-minute poo that wakes the dogs from a sound sleep so they can seek asylum outdoors. Bonus points when you leave the door wide open and tell me about the new girl at work who wears high heels and perfume EVERY DAY. Yes, I can believe it, she's 24. Yes, that sounds fascinating. I sure hope you'll continue talking about it because I'm on the edge of my goddamn seat … where I happen to be folding laundry and helping the children with an infuriating math puzzle while I fantasize about shoving a sock in your mouth.
No, I haven't gotten around to fixing the garbage disposal yet, and yes I'm super excited to have your coworker and his 30-year-old Republican supermodel wife over for dinner. Can I make sure the house is spotless? Absolutely. Will I make a gluten-free, vegan, free trade Icelandic pasta dish so she’ll feel at home? You bet. Have fun playing golf with your friends!
I love you, darling, I really do, but the next time you ask me, "Why don't you ever want to have sex anymore?" while eating a donut and picking your nose, I may throw something at you.
Believe it or not, everything is NOT my fault.
By the way, there's a piece of cheese in your two-foot-long eyebrow hairs.
Now, where'd I put my wine?
(This is an old favorite of mine, previously posted on a site that no longer exists.)