My Mother had her bowling league. My sister has her “coffee clutch”. I have supper club. Supper club consists of me and three of my girlfriends. We meet every six weeks or so for supper, drinks and conversation. Our most recent meeting was at Café Capprico where the conversations start with books, movies and after some hardcore drinking, turns to gossip, penis size and sex.
I made a declaration during the Founders Reading at Albany Word Fest that I am really no longer interested in sex. It is the truth. I had told the supper club girls the night before. They said I was full of shit. Again, it is the truth. They began with the questions. Are you tired? Are you eating properly? It will pass. Are you crazy? Is it your body image problem again? It is not any of those things. I’m just over it.
I am not a romantic and I have never really dated. I usually hooked up, moved them in, gained 20lbs of happy fat and then they get bored and left. Or I did, take your pick. I was even married once. Ended. I lived with someone for 10 years. We lived through (barely) an apartment, two bathroom renovations in two different houses, a bad roof, a basement that floods, nursing school, deaths, affairs, and parenthood. We no longer speak. It is too much to want to go through that again. Yet, my supper club girlfriends, who have gone through similar experiences and heart breaks, remain so freakishly optimistic. It is annoying really. They talk about “The Notebook” and get teary eyed. I never saw that movie or any like it. I don’t give a shit about “The Notebook”. I routed for the iceberg in “Titanic”. I always wonder how these “couples” will do when the roof leaks. What happens when the woman hasn’t gotten out of sweatpants for three
days because she had run out of the Lexapro that allows her to tolerate him and his sweaty foot problem? Let me tell you what happens. He becomes addicted to internet porn and she could care less.
Not to say that some people are happy being in a relationship and are satisfied with the whole sex thing. God Bless, I say. Just not for me anymore. I don’t want to shave ANYTHING! I don’t want to be seen naked or dressed for that matter really. Do you have any idea what a woman my size has to go through? There is the whole spanx thing. This really is a girdle. God forbid we pop out anywhere. Then the dress that has to be sexy but not slutty. Then I go through putting on make-up, heirs, a fake smile, feigning interest in his life story, faking orgasm, heels and a bra. I’m exhausted just thinking about it. I am not comfortable letting a potential boyfriend see me eat. I want him to believe (because I told him) I have a glandular problem. I’m at the age where it could happen. I don’t want to clean my house for that kind of company. Really, after the meal is paid for I just want to come home, fling my bra off and watch the shows I DVR’d.
This worries the supper club girls. No worries. Just because I am not dateable doesn’t mean that I am unhappy. I do what I want. I love my daughter, my dog and braless Wednesdays.
