Chicken Wings

A few ladies in my general circle happen to be in their dirty thirties--a decade, for some reason or another, filled with pheromones, vibrators and crotchless underwear.

Teenage girls act and dress as if they have sex after every meal but in reality, hopefully, they're all just talk for the sake of male approval. Bachelorette years are filled with bad decisions and sleepless nights. Married life, especially when there are wee ones in the picture, is punctuated by scheduled sex: "I'll feed the baby, you clean the vomit off the floor in Billy's room, and I'll meet you in bed, naked and in the starfish position, at 10:16."

But the kids grow up a bit. They tell us they hate us, and they redecorate with permanent marker but they fucking sleep through the night and that's enough to turn us mommies into sexy sexbeasts. Everything tastes delicious. Our too-tight jeans no longer make our butts feel fat, but exciting.

But anyway. Dirty thirties. And those of us who are in the midst of it or have lived through it can agree with me when I say that we not only need all the sex but we actually get panicky about it. I can imagine it's how a teenage boy might feel. When we pass by our partner in the kitchen and give their butt a swat it's like we haven't eaten in a week and we just stumbled upon a T-bone steak. And what do we do? We panic. And because we are human and life is life, The Sex doesn't always happen. Which makes us girls in our dirty thirties get all pathetic and needy and extremely annoying and frustrating to be around. Our underwear cuts into our skin, the channel is stupid, and the curtains are ugly.

When we sit around and talk about our budding problematic sexuality we have, on occasion, come to the conclusion that the only way around the panic is to be the master of our domain earlier on in the day before the date night because then anything that happens thereafter is a bonus. This way there's no pressure, no ugly curtains, no annoying neediness.

Tommy Boy convinced the waitress to reopen the kitchen so that he could order some chicken wings. He got her to do it because he was relaxed about it as he had a pizza in the trunk of his car if she decided to say no. Tommy want wingy. Same thing.

But then. I mean, it's fine and all, I'm certainly not judging. But I feel a little hesitant about it because whenever I'm stuck at a fork in the road I like to ask myself why. Why do we need to be the masters of our domain before date night? Is it really to take the edge off? Will we die if we wait? What are we afraid of? And if we do decide to go ahead and do it, are we doing it from a heart and mind of love, or of fear? Tommy Boy could have certainly done without the extra meal.

The opposite of love is not hate; it's fear.

Waiting for hunger pains makes food taste just so much better. It's healthier, too. So why wouldn't that concept ring true across the board? It does. It's the great paradox. In a world where all our needs and desires are at our fingertips with the push of a button (did you see what I did there?), our hearts call us to wait. Have patience. Utilize self control. And when it does happen, it's so worth it. And if it doesn't? There's always chicken wings.

Aid Stations

Andrew is running his first marathon this weekend. He's panicking about it, navigating around the land of "what if?" to the point where he knows all the landmarks and on a dime, could give a tour of its every fear and apprehension.

I assured him that any of his worries not only can materialize, but probably will and that a lot of the pain and discomfort of running a marathon cannot be avoided but they can be managed. And that managing the obstacles that pop up in his path is the key to crossing the finish line.

He's going to get tired, he's going to hurt. He may even throw up and get diarrhea. But that's what gels, ibuprofen, Imodium and port-a-potties are for.

It's like life. Some of us struggle with eating too much. Others hate being around people. Some can't sleep, some are scared of commitment, and some have enough dandruff to totally kill their shot at a social life. That's just the way it is, because we are human and we are alive.

Nobody is guaranteed a smooth sail through the finish line. The more people I meet, the more I realize that everyone has a story. And in each story is a struggle. An obstacle. A bout of diarrhea, some pain, some nausea, some exhaustion. These are the things we are called to manage, if we intend to finish this race. They're unavoidable, and so we face them head-on, right? With our names on our bibs, with our loves at our sides, and with drinks at the finish.