I’m No Postcoital Alien Dinner

You know the movie A Quiet Place? No? Quick recap.  It is a terrifying movie in which the slightest sound, alerts the blind alien invaders that you are near. And when they hear you, they eat you.  Well let me tell you something, if those aliens broke into my house on the one Saturday morning a month designated “adult time,” they would for sure eat my kids, who would be fighting over hairdryers and shower time, but they would never find me and my husband.  We have been trained to have very quiet Saturday morning sex.

Here’s the thing about sex life fifteen years and three kids into marriage. It’s still great, when it happens.  And don’t even get in the line to tell me to schedule that shit in.  Nope.  If you can’t find time to wash your hair (hello), you will legitimately have trouble scheduling sex, especially when you fall asleep at the kitchen table at 5 PM.  But we do manage to fit it in.

Saturday and Sunday.  These are the only two options for us.  Mid-morning, post workout, when we still have enough energy to walk, weekend sex.  I am not rushing out the door so I have time to whip a razor around and wash my hair.

The only problem with mid-morning sex is that we have three kids.  They live in our house.  We don’t have a lock on our door.  We do have kettlebells.  So at eleven AM on Saturday mornings, I put the kettlebells in front of our bedroom door, and that’s the signal, the green light.

Remember though, three kids.  Three kids who we mistakenly helicoptered their first ten years of life, until we just couldn’t.  Parenting is like a race, and we basically ran the first half of that marathon at a seven minute split.  We’ve been crawling since mile eight.

So in order to get the kids to leave us alone, and not sit outside our door wondering what we are doing, during our adult time, we throw the kettle bells in front of the door and turn on the exercise channel.  Then we quietly get to business, knowing three kids are walking round outside our door looking for lost shoes, chasing away errant cats, and generally making Saturday morning trouble.  So we enjoy ourselves, but there is a built in level of inhibition, at least as far as noise levels go.

Thus I found myself laughing last Saturday, when most people would be canoodling with their husbands in state of post-coital bliss. “What,” he asked looking down, “is so funny?”

“It’s just, if those aliens from A Quiet Place invade us, we can still have sex, no problem.”

It’s the fact that we have to work so hard to find these moments of intimacy that makes me wonder how and when, upon hearing a couple we know is breaking up over an infidelity.  My husband walked in and said, “you won’t believe it, Jane and John,” (obviously I have changed their names so as not to publicly humiliate them), “are getting a divorce, they were cheating, on each other.”

Holy Shit! My husband looked at me, I think perhaps worried I was mulling around the possibility of infidelity in our future.  I let him think this, because, I feel like sometimes you should fuck with your spouse.  He watched my face go in all sorts of “I forgot my botox,” directions as I tried to digest this information.

Then I let him off the hook.  “How the hell did they find time to have an affair?” I then think to myself, because some things you don’t share with your spouse, even after fifteen years, that woman had to wax or laser her vagina, like not just a quick razor to make sure she doesn’t look like Godzilla the way one does after fifteen years of marriage, but like, she needs that area “first time you have seen my pussy, isn’t she fabulously groomed,” presentable.  

And, speaking of that area, maybe it’s the Janes who are keeping that vagina laser in the plastic surgeon’s office flashing away all day.  I must admit, I was a little surprised, when the lady who does my botox told me that vagina lasering is their most popular treatment.  I mean, for me, a person who has to make difficult household budgeting decisions, the question of beautifying my face or vagina is not a tough one to answer.  But, hey, I’m not saying “hi” to new friends with my vagina.  My face does all the heavy lifting in my social interactions.  But armed with the knowledge of Jane’s infidelity, the appeal of vaginal lasering was starting to make sense.

I looked at my husband again.  We were on the sofa flipping through Facebook and watching Billions.  My feet were on his lap. Foot rubs are the new sex, chez nous.  “Honey?”  He looked at me, rightfully concerned about any question coming his way.  “I mean, is there something wrong with us?  It seems to me cheating would require enough energy to groom, leave the house, and make conversation, like enough conversation with someone to get them to have sex with us, and that’s I mean a LOT of energy. We don’t have enough energy to get off the sofa to get a glass of water after nine pm. Maybe we should have a blood test done, maybe we have Hashimoto’s.”

I keep to myself the fact that I only have time to wash and dry my hair once or twice a week. Right there is his insurance that I am not cheating.  Dry shampoo doesn’t smell that good.  Plus, Jane and John, they are probably getting eaten by the aliens. I suspect they aren’t having married for fifteen years, quiet sex.  No they are having vagina lasered, not my spouse, screaming sex.  And if the whole infidelity, destroying the family aspect of that doesn’t deter them, which, seemingly it hasn’t, they should really think about the aliens.

 

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