I have this theory that the battle of the sexes really comes down to this: there are some people who like nighttime sex and others who like morning sex.
I happen to like night nookie, much to the disappointment of my husband Ron who is a happy, whistle-a-song morning person. It’s not so much that I don’t like morning sex as much as I resent the very morning itself and the way it invades my sweet sleep, beaming brightly at me and not giving me any transition time and making me painfully aware of the aches that are increasingly creeping into my joints. Any attempt at a pass at this point will be met with better defense than either the 49ers or the Giants showed during overtime in last week’s playoff game. So if my husband is looking to score with me it’s got to be a night game.
Getting to the evening is fraught with all sorts of pitfalls. There are bad hair days, kids acting up days, and “Oh, wow, I can’t stand the mess in this house” days. Anything that happens between sunrise and sunset can derail the trip.
Given our being on the opposite ends of the night/day nookie equation, it’s amazing we’ve been married 13 years. Especially since I’m one of those girls who gets into “situations.” You know, the type of situations that makes me wonder if the universe slapped a big “kick me” sign on my back and an “L” for Loser on my forehead just for good measure.
There is just some persuasive force that taps me on the shoulder when I’m, say, on my way to the hair salon and tells me, “You know, you can cut and dye your hair yourself and save about $60.” I inexplicably listen to it, take action, and then I’m forced to go on vacation with pumpkin orange hair and patches of brown where the dye didn’t take.
It’s this same voice that made 21-year-old me believe that buying a Fiat convertible with no reverse and a battery that drained after every 45 miles was a good investment. It was also the voice that told 36-year-old me that taking a running dive on the kids’ Slip ‘n’ Slide would be fun and definitely wouldn’t cause me to throw out my back. The voice lied.
This ever-present voice is not always at the root of the situations I get into. Like I’m pretty sure I had nothing to do with my street clothes being stolen while I was wearing a kimono and dancing in the Obon Festival. Then there was the time in the health food store that I gave a new meaning to food in the raw.
I was crouched down looking at the bottom shelf totally not following any hair-brained ideas when my 3-year-old walked up behind me and unzipped my dress and ran. As soon as I felt the zipper move I did what any woman would do who was being undressed in public, I quickly stood up to re-zip, only instead my dress dropped to my hips before I could catch it. The produce boy now smiles broadly at me whenever I walk in, but it definitely was a not-so-happy end to my day.
These are the eggshells my husband walks on waiting for evening to come. Then sometimes he tiptoes through the day only to crush the last eggshell. Depending on his determination, he’ll help me clean, put the kids to bed early, place a glass of wine in my hand, because you know, wine, is a no brainer. Then he’ll turn on the TV and change it to a mood maker like “There Will Be Blood.” But not the beginning of that movie—which he argues is incredibly good. No, it’s at the last brutal, bloody scene, leaving me disturbed and teary-eyed. Crrruushh.
Yes, I’m one of those girls and Ron has no problem reminding me what a dork I am. But since he can’t change me, he’s gotten smart about his evening planning. It starts in the morning but it’s usually a rock-solid foundation that lasts through even the worst obstacles of the day.
Like, for example, the other morning as he was getting ready for work I, in my sleepy daze, asked why he always compares me to every ditzy, dorky, modern-day damsel-in-distress in television history. Without missing a beat—like he’s already planned his explanation—he says, “I don’t compare you to every dork. Just one. You’re Lucy from ‘I Love Lucy,’” he said.
That didn’t make me feel any better and in the dark he sensed it. He grabbed his bag and headed for the door and stopped to say one last thing: “Just remember, 50 million people loved Lucy and tuned in to watch her.” Then he left. And that, my friends, is how you speak your mind and still lay the groundwork to get laid that night.
You don’t have to wait until evening to contact Arts Editor Shelly Cone. Visit her blog at ShellyCone.com or email her at scone@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Jan 26 – Feb 2, 2012.
