Love and Other Indoor Sports...

Remember that little phrase from Starring Sally J. Freedman As Herself? I remember when I read that book and the meaning of it dawned on me I blushed as red as a tomato.

But then Judy Blume made me blush regularly.

I am by no means a prude. Really. You can ask my best friend. We've discussed some serious raunch over the past 10 years, and I can come out with some wicked nasty. I do, however, still blush. Easily.

Yesterday I was packing up the closets because I figured that the best course of action was to start with packing the things we don't need over the next couple of weeks and end with the items that are still in use. I was going through the closet in the living room, and that happens to be where we stashed everything from our wedding. The fancy shmancy "marriage certificate" is in there. You know, the one suitable for framing? It's um, sort of crumpled now. And I never filled it out. So I took 2 minutes yesterday to do that. It was in a giant gift bag that was itself inside a large, open cardboard box. Other things had tumbled into the box over the years, so I decided to sort through everything and re-pack the box with only wedding nostalgia.

My hand fell upon a wad of white lace and I pulled it out to find a thong (actually more of a G-String) with a musical crotch that plays the recessional music from weddings when pressure is applied. My face burst into flames.

Now, you have to understand that I never wore it. I really, really can't stand thong underwear in the first place, and the LAST moment I want something wandering up my rear end is when I'm trying to concentrate on being happy. I like being happy. I do not like wedgies.

I am convinced that had I lived in the days when the wedding party would crash the honeymoon suite after the wedding took place, strip the bloody bedding, and parade it around the reception I would have slit my own throat.

I am perfectly comfortable discussing sex as a concept. I REALLY enjoy making jokes about it in general (when I turned 21 my roommates gave me a Very Penis Birthday. Let's just say I had no idea there were that many items of that theme in existence). There is also one particular topic from my past that is between the best friend and myself, and it never fails to inspire hilarity. In general, though, I really, really, honest to God truly do not like anyone knowing about my own particular business. Or even thinking about it (and I know that right now you can't think about anything else, but I'm willing to make the sacrifice of my dignity for this entry).

People who give the kind of gift that plays music in your crotch are thinking about your particular business. I flamed when I first unwrapped it just as badly as I did yesterday. I'm the kind of person who spent all of both pregnancies once I began showing thinking, "Oh my gawd. Everyone knows I got laid." When the kids finally figure out that act had to occur to get them here I might very well run shrieking into the night.

I've had moments over the years when I've had to stuff my mortification and ask people for advice about certain issues, and each and every time I've wanted to crawl into a very dark cave and die.

While I have a thousand and one issues that do bug me, such as the OCD thing and really hating to drive at night, I actually don't mind this personality quirk too much. The primary reason is that it allows my husband to still have the ability to make me blush. There's something fairly delightful about that.

Since the theme of today appears to be shame of one sort or another, I'll go ahead and link you to the essay I wrote for my assignment for Chuck at Terribleminds. It is a far more depressing piece than the above. Enter at your own risk.

EDIT: Odd that I have not tagged this post at all, and yet technorati sent someone here because I supposedly tagged the post as "3 D S e x G a m e s." Sometimes I hate the internet.