"When are you going to die so I can start sleeping around," I blurted out to my husband recently in the context of our estate planning discussions. I don't want him gone, really I don't, but I want to know when it's going to be. So I can be prepared.
Apparently, it's not enough for me to plan the financial future. I need to plan my future sex life. And as I reassured my husband, there's nothing wrong with ours. The only thing possibly missing is, by definition, the excitement of a new relationship. But that has been replaced by the comfort of an old one. Not an old shoe, but my favorite shoe.
This is about something different. It's the ability to treat sex purely as sex. Not as the prelude to a relationship or possibly marriage. Pregnancy is unlikely. Disease still has to be addressed. But, reputation doesn't matter. Nor does the "number."
You know what number . . . the sex partner count. Just recently, one of my friends was tallying her pre-marriage men and still is somewhat mortified. And her data is a quarter-century old.
Does anybody really care what an old widow does? I'm not talking about the 30 year old hot neighbor who shovels snow in a bikini. I'm picturing a middle-aged mother, possibly with grown children, making a new life for herself. At that age, most women are invisible anyway (a subject for another post). Others are involved in their own lives. There's no longer a scorekeeper at the game. And that sounds like fun. And freedom.
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