*** Warning: This post contains some adult content. ***
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| Photo courtesy of stockfreeimages.com |
I met my husband almost nine years ago, before law school
(and well before law school debt). At
the beginning of our relationship, I was at the tail end of my college career
and didn’t really have a care in the world.
Sex was easy. Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights were
spent out at the bars with friends, and then we’d stumble home after post-bar
time pizza or burgers (“hangover sponges” as we called them). Even drunk and full of greasy, toxic waste,
we’d still find a way to get it on. I
recall one time, after an all day pub crawl, I was freezing cold when my
then-boyfriend (now husband) and I got home, so I jumped into the shower with
my clothes on. The water warmed me up
and – possibly feeling inspired by a foreign film I’d recently seen at the
independent cinema near campus (was it the bathtub scene in The Dreamers?) – I jumped into bed, wet
clothes still on, and we proceeded to have one of the hottest sexual encounters
I can remember. I recall different
positions, scattered bottles of lube, and waking up wearing his tee-shirt and
my high heels from the night before.
A couple years later when I started law school, our
freewheelin’ sex life slowed down as I became more concerned about grades, summer
internships, and the parol evidence rule.
My taste in movies and books changed, too. During undergrad, I was into foreign films
and I gobbled up anything from the Everyman’s Library. In law school, on the other hand, the stack
of books on my nightstand collected dust and I didn’t even blink when I walked
past the independent cinema on my way to the library to study Evidence
instead. I rationalized these changes in
my life as the natural transition from the “sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll” years
of a liberal arts education, to the “get a haircut and find a real job”
philosophy of professional school. I
remember thinking that I couldn’t wait to graduate so life would be less
stressful and I could get back to being the real me, a person who loved art,
literature and politics. Oh, and plenty
of sex.
I thought the persona I had to put on in law school was just
temporary. Sort of a bandage I wore
while growing a thicker skin underneath in preparation for the challenges of a
litigation career. I promised my
then-fiancé
that once I got a job and had a more regular schedule, the old, sexy me would
surely return. We could go back to
watching dirty movies on a (somewhat) regular basis and jokingly contemplating
a potential threesome in Vegas someday. The
frigid woman staring back at me in the mirror who dressed like a penguin during
her summer internships (black suit, white shirt) would someday be a distant
memory.
But that woman didn’t go away. Instead, her colorless wardrobe only
expanded. I remember going shopping with
one of my non-lawyer girlfriends one day to buy shoes. I put on a pair of shiny red pumps and posed
in front of a full-length mirror.
“Wow, you look hot!”
My girlfriend marveled. “You need to get those.”
“Mmmm…” I replied,
studying my reflection while my heart grew heavy. I could never buy them. Who would take me seriously wearing shoes
like that? I bought some sensible,
thick-heeled, black clods instead.
I also gained seven pounds, which didn’t exactly make me
feel sexy. I tried going to the gym as
often as I did pre-law career, but I didn’t have the strength to log as many
hours on the treadmill as I used to. I also ate lunch at my desk, which
consisted of a lot of sandwiches. Too
many carbs and not enough movement equaled extra poundage that made me feel
bloated and old. I longed for my college
days, when I could eat a bag of chocolate chip cookies for lunch and then go
run ten miles to make up for it. ‘Twas a
simpler time indeed.
The frequency of sex with my husband dwindled to about once
a month, and I resigned myself to the ostensible realities of life in the “real
world.” Less sex, bigger clothes, and no
art in sight. Sex, health, and creative
expression had become aspirational, and I only had time for the practical
(deadlines, clients, and keeping the partners happy during a shaky
economy).
The nadir of my sexless anxiety/depression phase came on a
weekend when I was to travel a couple hundred miles for a friend’s baby
shower. That Friday afternoon, a
sentencing hearing went rather badly, and I needed to just veg for a while when
I got home. My husband and I drank wine
and watched a movie called Two Lovers. I watched Gwyneth Paltrow’s character dance,
have sex, and seduce Joaquin Phoenix, while heaviness gripped my heart again
like that day in the shoe store with my girlfriend. It wasn’t that I admired the actions of
Gwyneth Paltrow’s character. I admired the
fact that she still got to make mistakes, a luxury most attorneys feel they
cannot afford. Like the red shoes, sex
and fun were distractions that had no place in my life as a lawyer.
Early Saturday morning, I drove to my girlfriend’s shower and
was greeted by her parents. I’ve known
them since I was a kid, and I consider them to be the mom and dad I never had. Her
father asked me how I was doing.
“Ok, I guess. I had kind
of a rough week.” I looked down and took a sip of the beer I’d been handed
shortly after walking in the door.
“A rough week? Isn’t
that what you said the last time I saw you?”
His brow furrowed in concern.
“Did I?” God, my
misery was actually getting repetitive. “I guess that’s the life of a lawyer.” I laughed and tried to think of something more
positive to say about my life, but I couldn’t.
Instead, I gushed about how great the nursery was looking.
After I quit law, I thought I’d immediately bounce back and reclaim
my sexuality once again, but it didn’t happen right away. At first, I felt lost and depressed, and
missed having an impressive job title to shield me from having to explain the emptiness
of my existence to the people in my life.
I began thinking defeatist thoughts, too. The fact was, I was starting to look like a
middle-aged mom, although I was only 32 and had no children. Maybe I was just doomed to becoming
overweight and sexless. Maybe each year,
I’d put on five or ten pounds. Maybe eventually
I’d become a shapeless blob who looked the other way when her husband frequented
strip clubs and internet chat rooms in a desperate attempt to hold onto sex in
whatever limited form he could.
And then eventually, I began to think more about what I wanted
for my future. I realized that since I
had very little to be anxious about anymore (no more deadlines looming over my
head, no more clients and partners demanding the impossible), I now had everything to be anxious about. After all, we only have so much time on this
earth. I’d already wasted six years of
it in law. I couldn’t waste anymore.
So I started reading again, and exercising. My body started looking more like its pre-law
condition, and I decided to make sex more of a priority. I could finally afford to, since most of my
days ended by six o’clock and I could leave work at work. I found that when you don’t have a job title
that gives you an entire identity, you start to cultivate an actual
personality, and you care more about maintaining important relationships.
I also started thinking about all the dreams I had when I
was a naïve undergrad. Maybe I’ll never
realize all of them, but wouldn’t it be silly not to try? Maybe I’ll never become a real writer. Maybe my husband and I will never be as care-free
as we once were. Maybe rock star sex is a thing of the past. But dammit, why go
gently into that good night? Why not
write a book, even if it is terrible?
Why not stay out late on Saturday night and make a few memories? Why not try new things sexually, even if it’s
no longer effortless?
I ordered a copy of The
Dreamers the other day. I know it
wasn’t in the budget, but it was fairly cheap, and I think it will ultimately
be good for me. It’s possible that I’ll
watch it again and wonder what I ever saw in it. Or maybe the theme of the movie - the
inevitable loss of youth and idealism that happens to all of us – will make me
sad. But it’s also possible that I’ll
watch it and wake up the next morning wearing nothing but my husband’s tee-shirt
and a pair of shiny red heels.
There’s only one way to find out.
*** Warning: This video, and the movie itself, are wildly inappropriate for anyone, but especially those under 18.***
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