One is a good reason that most people wish they had. I’ve been having lots of sex. I’m in the throes of a new relationship and everything is fresh and exciting. And the sex just happens to be really great, and that makes me want to continue to have it–especially since my self-imposed two year celibacy, where my only lover had a high and low switch and plugged into the wall. But now our hormones have calmed a bit. Well mine has. Hers is still uncannily like those of a 19 year old boy. I fear she has testosterone poisoning. She would throw me down at least five times a day if I let her. But I’m satisfied, and so I don’t need to be thrown down quite that often. My hormones, I suppose fall into the “normal” range. I only require sex an average of 5 times a week. (wink wink). I think it’s good to nurture the other aspects of a relationship, and if you’re just doing the nasty all the time, you miss out on getting to know someone, heart and soul. And it makes it exciting if you wait a while between the slap and tickle sessions. My current partner assures me that it feels just as good no matter how many times a day I do it. Ironically, not too long ago, I was wishing that I had more than zero sex life. I won’t say “be careful what you wish for” because that implies that I’m suffering some sort of punishment, when really I am basking in the sincere and passionate favors of an attentive lover. I shall not for an instant insinuate that this is a bad thing.
Another reason why I have been remiss with my literary endeavors, is directly due to insomnia and indirectly to guilt and obligation. I have been going through my usual phase of sleeplessness, and this leads to sleeping all day. When she comes home from work, I feel it is my duty (as well as my pleasure) to spend time with her. So when I am waking up, she is returning home and thinking about passing out from exhaustion right after I serve dinner. That means I’m wide awake, and ready to write and do other various and sundry things, to include, but not limited to moving furniture around, creating a painting, or filing that stack of papers that have accumulated on my desk. I’ve tried taking that prescription sleep-aid my doctor gave me, but all that does is make me sleepy for 14 hours after I take it. But if I don’t take it, I don’t sleep. I’ve tried the more holistic solutions of warm milk, herbal tea, and such-even alcohol. But none of them make me go to sleep. Some have sent me to bed long enough to lie there and think about the bazillion things I could be doing, but none of them deliver me into the loving arms of the Sandman.
The other culprit is MahJongg. That maddeningly addictive tile matching game from the Orient that has me glued to my computer monitor-click-swish-click-swish-until my eyes feel like they are made of bamboo. My theory on this addiction is that the game appeals to my great need to make order from chaos. And what could be more orderly than matching up symbols and clearing a page?
Because of this odd schedule, I am also off my schedule for taking my thyroid meds, and that can lead to all kinds of nasty side effects like. . . lethargy in the daytime, brittle nails, dry skin, easy bruising, poor vision and the loss of large amounts of hair (although, I have yet to see any hair fall off my legs. . .i suspect it’s some cruel ironic joke from the Universe that the hair I wish would fall out, never does).
All of these things have resulted in a guilty, sleepy, hair-losing lump of nocturnal protoplasm.
So, to recap: insomnia, sex, guilt, and MahJongg. Heed well, my children. These are instruments of the devil.