Having passed the honeymoon phase in my marriage, and the age of forty, I was feeling a little old, a little droopy.
Keeping the spark alive is important to me. I have no intention of wearing matching track suits with my husband, morphing into roommates who mostly look forward to “Sandwich Thursdays” and maybe a dirty word on the Scrabble board. The slippery slope to forgetting about sex scares the leopard panties off me. But I could feel it creeping in.
I started noticing a few more wrinkles, some strategically tragic sagging, and began to imagine a future as Mrs. Roper– always wanting more sex, and my husband wanting someone younger.
I moped around for a few days.
I ate Ben and Jerry’s.
Then, it happened. My glorious discovery.
My husband fell asleep early one night while I worked late. And for the first time in our few years together, he left his computer on. And there it was in Technicolor stretch marks: Older ladies in, well, let’s just say in compromising positions. I couldn’t believe it. I looked up his history trail. Yup. He was into it. BIG time. It was the only stuff like that he looked at! He wanted to bag the old bags!!
“YES!! HALLELUJAH!! YESSS!! SWEET-MOTHER-OF-ALL-THAT-IS-GOOD-AND-TRUE!!” I screamed. I started dancing around the room — giggling and sticking my chest out in a cocky, maniacal leprechaun jig. I banged my knee on the desk. Even that made me squeal in delight. These women had saggage I wouldn’t know for at least ten to fifteen years! These women had wrinkles I won’t see for a decade or two! I can compete with that!! I thought!
I confronted him the next day. “I saw your computer videos and I’m so happy!”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were into older women?”
“I thought you’d think I’m a perv.”
“I already know you’re a perv, Honey.”
“I don’t know,” he mumbled. “I just wasn’t comfortable telling you. And why are you so damn happy you found that on my computer?”
“Because… you’ll still want me when I’m old! Yay!!”
“Of course I will.”
“No… that’s what all husbands say. Because they’re supposed to say that. But I will look better than those women in 10, 15, maybe even 20 years. And you don’t secretly wish you were with an 18 year-old!”
“See? I feel hopeful. And happy.”
“Can we stop talking about this now?”
I was so ecstatic I pushed him on the bed and attacked him. And I swear, from that day forward, parts that were starting to sag more-than-a-little paraded and swung around more proudly than ever. In daylight. In his face. Threatening a black eye. I didn’t try to hide the aging parts I had been ashamed of. Even at extra-saggy awkward angles. Less hiding behind pillows, sheets and darkness. I felt free. Comfortable.
And the sex got amazingly better…
“Honey, can we watch one of those granny videos again tonight? They make me feel pretty.”
“Oh, for cryin’ out loud.”