Uncomfortable conversations are my specialty.
If there was a job that entailed sitting around all day, having uncomfortable conversations with people, I’d be the fucking CEO.
Not, like, you’ve got six months to live conversations.
But, the hey, you started your period on my couch conversations. The I think I accidentally hit a opossum, or possibly your infant conversations. The wait, did you think I was a real lesbian conversations. The I have no idea why I just stole your cart with your baby in it, seriously, why do all babies look the same conversations. Or, the ok so oral sex, you’re doing it wrong, let me show you this graph I made conversations.
Those, I’m super good at.
But, when it comes to the, why sure I want to have intercourse with you, just let me drink this here bottle of wine conversation…I’m struggling.
I need to drink to have sex with my husband.
Sounds horrible. I know. Even when I say it in my head, I’m like, Brittany, never say that out loud, people are going to feel bad for you, the way they feel bad for that guy in Korea who married his pillow.
I have had a lot of awkward and uncomfortable conversations with Andy, like why I buy pads even when I’m not on my period, or why he caught me shaving my face that one time, but there is pretty much no awesome way to approach this.
When we were in procreation mode, things were different. We had small babies, he worked hectic hours. It was just us scrambling during nap time, with me shoving a pillow under my butt and my legs in the air, while Andy plays video games in bed next to me while we wait for gravity to make all the sperm to fall into my egg lair.
That may be a poor and inaccurate description of what actually happens during reproduction. I picture it as being like when Pinocchio was swallowed by the whale. The whale in this metaphor being…my vagina?
Metaphors aside, we’re past that point. Our kids are a bit older, and can entertain themselves for longer stretches. Now we’re having sex just for the sport of it, and we are intimate with each other purely because we want to be.
And, we do. Very much.
Especially after date night, or when the kids go to bed early, or after we watch one of those Food Network cake challenges, because seriously, there is just something about someone spreading around butter cream and fondant that does it for me.
So what’s the problem?
The problem is me.
The problem is I’m afraid to take my camisole off in bed, leave the light on in a dark room, or have anyone join me in the shower who is above the age of two, and even then, she’s getting entirely to liberal with her questions.
Um, should my feelings be hurt here that you are gulping a tumbler of wine before we do it?
Nope, this is totally a me thing, you are super sexy, no worries on your end, you…animal.
Yeah, that’s weird, I’m not having sex with you anymore until you tell me what’s going on.
Andy, only women can withhold sex as a threat, didn’t you ever watch According to Jim?
No, I am serious.
It’s just…(deep breath) ok, so the thing is, when I take my bra off and lay down, my boobs melt into my armpits, and my bare stomach looks like whatever Billy Crystal was in The Princess Bride, and my thighs are huge, and, like, 900 other things that I hate, but if I sip a little wine or or something, I just feel a little more uninhibited, so my brain forgets all that stuff and I enjoy myself more, and not worry where the hell that slapping noise is coming from.
Seriously, I’ve told you a million times how hot you are, and as a reminder, I’ve watched you physically push three kids out during childbirth, and that is basically the sickest thing I have ever witnessed in my life, but despite that horror show, here I am, looking at the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen.
Ok that last line was lame, but yeah, I always forget you watched three babies rip out of my love hole. Can’t get any unsexier than that, can it?
Nope, not really.
And that, folks, is how marriage works.