The Downsides are Obvious

"So I was wondering if . . . maybe . . . I mean, if you'e comfortable with it . . ."

"Jesus, Kels. Out with it."

My college friends don't stand for a lot of prevarication.

I take a deep breath. "I haven't been sleeping well. I was wondering if we could snuggle a little bit before we fell asleep."

She starts laughing and pulls a pillow into her lap. "Yeah, you weirdo. Come on over."

We turn on a movie and she starts to stroke my hair. "Sorry." I mutter, sleepily. "It's the mild autism. I like to be touched when I'm upset."

She laughs again. "It's not mild autism, Kels. It's called being a human and living alone."

I'm asleep before I can smartmouth back.

***

I've got sex on the brain lately.

As if my writing from April to present left any question of what I'm spending my spare time thinking about.

It's the sudden confluence of a lot of factors, not the least of which is a cessation of hormonal birth control (which, for Christ's sake, can we find a birth control pill for men already?) and (if blogs for ladies are to be believed) the arrival of my 30s and ohmygodthebiologicalneedtopassonmydna. Regardless of the factors, the truth is, quite simply, that I've got sex on the brain. 

Given my current status as a single person and the fact that I literally cannot give it away, I've been a little edgy lately. The downsides are obvious. The upsides, if there are any, are that I'm currently ramping up training for a fall race, so I'm doubly motivated to spend five days a week at the gym or running in circles around the Twin Cities. 

Just in case you're wondering, running eight miles doesn't actually take the edge off. Neither do ice baths, conversations about baseball, or depressing television shows. 

I've never had as much empathy for 13 year old boys as I do right now. 

***

The high-pitched noises I'm making are crazy. 

Kelly Marie, you bourgeoisie,
The French Revolution was a near tragedy.
The peasants had no bread, 
The King lost his head, 
and under Maximillian saw forty-thousand dead. [. . .]

It's my annual Bastille Day party. I love holidays that celebrate the overthrow of tyranny in service of democracy, and my family is part French, so Bastille Day is a big one for me. Every year I get a group of friends together, make a huge meal, quaff a great deal of champagne, and talk at length about  . . . whatever. History. Art. Science.

It's one of my favorite parties, a long, lovely night in with the people I love most in the world. This year we outdid ourselves. Not to brag, but the food was superb, the conversation sparkling, the champagne in abundance. It was warm enough to eat in the garden and it was just a fantastic night.  We were going around the table making toasts to the evening, to the company, to the food, and when we arrived at the last person, he announced that he had written a special toast, in honor of my love of French history. He proceeded to give a toast to the French Revolution in rhyme, that he wrote specifically for me. 

Squee.

***

"Colin Firth's voice is like the Balm of Gilead." 

"You got the audiobook, didn't you?" 

"Yup. And it's fantastic."

"When are you listening to it?"

"Bedtime."

"Oh Lord." 

"No! that's not what I meant!"

I have a lot of issues with insomnia, and as a result have to be careful about what I do immediately preceding bedtime. Staying up with a book is nice, but I need to start shutting off lights at least a half an hour before I want to fall asleep. But, you know, just sitting in a dark apartment trying to unwind isn't particularly relaxing. Music keeps me awake because it isn't nearly monotonous enough. Inevitably while listening to podcasts, right as I'm falling asleep I hear an idea that catches me and pulls me back awake.

I had, for a few months in my early 20s, a boyfriend who like to read to me while I was falling asleep and it was the perfect solution. I could slip into one of his shirts, pull on my eye mask, curl up around my body pillow, and listen to him read. His voice was quiet and steady enough that I would be asleep in ten minutes. The next night we would talk about what I remembered hearing last and start again. 

I know. Blorch. I promise, that's as sweetly sentimental as you'll ever hear me get. 

Anyway, like an overstimulated child, I love being read to sleep. And I missed it. For years I looked for a suitable substitute to that guy. 

So when Audible introduced the Sleep function to their mobile app, I nearly cried with joy. 

 These days, around bedtime, I slip into the sheets, pull my eye mask over my eyes, wrap myself around my body pillow, and listen while Colin Firth reads me The End of the Affair. 

It's not perfect, but in a pinch, it'll do. 

***

"You've gotten really good at being alone."

"Um. Thanks? I mean, I've been at it for awhile. So, I suppose . . ." I trail off.

"No, I mean it. Between the body pillow, the audiobooks, the clever method of zipping up your own dresses, you've gotten really good at being alone. I don't think I could ever manage without my husband. Although" she smirks, "I imagine there are some things that are less enjoyable than you could wish."

She looks pointedly at my bedside drawer and I know she snooped while I was in the bathroom. 

Can we all agree that smug married people are the fucking worst? 

I nearly bite my tongue in half trying to keep from verbally skewering this woman. I'm better friends with her husband, and have often been invited out for long bro-y nights of throwing darts and drinking beer. I'm reasonably certain that despite being a solo act, my floor show is better than hers is ever going to be. 

But good manners and a desire not to send her crying home to her husband aren't the only things keeping me from unleashing the verbal harpoons.

I've become really good figuring out the other parts of relationships that I miss. I've got sleeping alone down to a science, I have friends who are intellectually stimulating and emotionally supportive. I'm living a life I love and find tremendously valuable and fulfilling.

I miss sex.

I do. I really, really miss it. I miss the sheer physicality of being with another person. I miss the way physical contact can grind your rational brain to a halt and keep you from being able to remember your own name, let alone how you look without your clothes on. I miss when you suddenly find yourself in an awkward or unanticipated moment and you both burst out laughing. I miss being left breathless and leaving someone else the same way.

Jesus. I even miss the nasty looks from the neighbors when I bump into them in the hallway. 

And regardless of whether or not it's simply the result of not having my body pumped full of artificial hormones or the fact that I may finally be tired of being alone (somehow I doubt it's the latter) for the first time in years I'm at a place where maybe what's in the bedside drawer isn't as satisfying as it used to be.