Sex in the Suburbs

When I was going through puberty the first time, I was at the height of my tennis career. I was pretty damn good. But I remember, being in the middle of a game with some worthy opponent and he or she would scream out the score Forty/ Thirty or Deuce or Forty/Love, and I distinctly remember that I had absolutely no memory of how we had arrived at that score. I mean I couldn’t remember the last three points--at all! At the time I found it amusing. Today when I found myself at a shopping mall with no recollection of how I got there or why I went there in the first place, I didn’t find it amusing in the least. I found it frightening. Was this the first sign of early dementia? I relaxed a little when I remembered that I was going through puberty again. At least for a while I had something on which to blame my forgetfulness.

What had I been so preoccupied thinking about that I lost twenty minutes of real time? Sex. Well, if anything will take your mind off the mundane, sex will. You see, my fifty-two- year old husband of nineteen years still tells me I am wildly sexy and beautiful and desirable, and I know he is full of merde. I know he is carefully laying the foundations for a night of lust…the poor guy is just hoping to get laid. And bless his heart, when you are dealing with a menopausal woman, this is no easy task. But does he have to lie to me? Does he think I believe him? Or does he really not see me?

I have a middle aged bulge, my thighs wiggle and have a lovely cottage cheese texture, I have skin tags I am too afraid to remove, I probably haven’t shaved for a few days, and a Brazilian is simply out of the question. Way too much pain involved. I also cling to my old lady underwear like a child to a favorite teddy bear. I have tried wearing a thong but find myself with my fingers up my butt most of the evening. So I figure, the poor bastard is so deprived of sex that anyone would do, even me.

Now don’t go feeling sorry for me. I have never suffered from low self-esteem. I am just a realist and pretty happy with myself. It is just this middle-aged sex stuff has me confused.

I remember boys trying to get me in the sack when I was fourteen. I was confused then too. Did they like me for my wit and stunning personality, for my brains? It didn’t take me long to realize they liked me for my boobs. Today, my boobs sag…so why does my husband lust after me?

I have tried talking to him about this but he sticks to his story. I am irresistible to him and always have been. I think it is his failing eyesight. But his eyes are better than mine since his laser surgery. So I have concluded this must be love. And that I am I one lucky menopausal broad.