If the title of this post isn't enough of a hint, I'm going to talk about sex.
Or in my spinster case, lack thereof.
I'm coming up on my one year Celibaversary. That's what I'm going to call it. My Celibaversary. Get it? Because I haven't have a roll in the hay in ALMOST A YEAR.
My very last coital experience was a messy, merlot-fueled booty call with John McCain. It was horrible. Not the actual act, I am like a man in that respect (even bad sex is good sex), but the conditions and the aftermath were just icky. I haven't done anything dumb and drunk like that in a good long while (I think it was actually the night I got Professor Plumb to drive from Wisconsin for a quickie) and I will never do that again. I hope.
Anyhoo. I have a gyno appointment in a week or so, and I have been having these horrible images of me laying back on the table, feet up in stirrups, and as I "part the curtains" I imagine an ancient mausoleum creaking noise will erupt from my nether-regions and a large flock of moths will come fluttering out from the darkness.
My doc is a wonderful chick, I'm sure she'll have some sort of pesticide/WD40 type stuff for me.
So, just in case you were wondering, yes you can survive for a year without nookie. It's not going to be a super relaxing year, nor will it do wonders for your self-esteem, but it's survivable.
I guess it could be worse. I could still be married to Big Daddy and have the fun of hearing my husband sneak in at 4:00 a.m., reeking of a bar. Or I could be celebrating my 5 year Celibaversary.