A Blog Entry About Hot, Torrid Sex

C'mon. Ya'll knew that was a lie before you started reading. ha.

I love blogging. It sounded like a great idea when I started this, and when I look at how long I've actually kept it up, I am very proud of myself. I'm also pleased that I have people who actually think my rambling thoughts are something worth reading. I looked back over some of my past posts today, sort of critiquing my own writing. I really wish my blog sounded like "Sex and the City meets the Desperate Housewives." I realized today, however, it sounds much closer to "What I Did on My Summer Vacation."

Unfortunately, that's a pretty fair assessment of my life, too. Not a lot of excitement or daring adventures. Just a lot of time trying to be a good girl and not get arrested or recklessly endangered.

As I near the part of life that is somewhere between menopause and death, I listen to others tell tales about their life adventures and I'm jealous. I wish I'd had the wild fling with the cruise ship attendent and lost my virginity on my senior cruise like my friend, Rachel did. And his name was Antonio, but she said it like the most exotic sounding name you've ever heard, as in..."Then he took off his shirt and I said...Ohhh AWN-TOE-KNEE-OHHHH."

No, my first time was fumbling in the back seat of a car and I think I didn't say anything but thought, "Oh, God, please get this over with fast and don't let my mother ever find out." Of course, my grandmother later asked why I left home wearing pantyhose and came home with them in my purse. I didn't answer, because I couldn't think of anything to say that my grandmother wouldn't instantly see through.

I wish I had gone on a trip with a bunch of girlfriends, and gotten drunk at a corner bistro in France while we laughed hysterically about all the men we'd known and their funny quirks. Instead, my funny stories were told over high chair trays at Burger King in Alabama while being interrupted by toddlers screaming and people giving us dirty looks, and our stories were mostly about leaving a red sock in with our husband's whites in the laundry.

But life goes on. And there comes a time that I realized that I am not going to pull any unexpected, wild, adventurous surprises on anyone that knows me. I've become terribly predictable and my family likes it that way. I begin a sentence and my husband finishes it. I don't do something I had been planning and my son says he knew I wouldn't do it when I mentioned it. And you know, even that gets to be ok with me. Because I am predictable. My routine is predictable. And there is a certain comfort in that.

But, for my dear blog readers, it sure doesn't make for such great reading. But hey, my daydreams are hot. Really!