So. My left ankle having snapped like a cheap Christmas toy a few days ago, I'm still adjusting to the joys and mysteries of one-leggedness. To be entered into the file of Things So Ironic as to Prove the Existence of God: That very fateful night that I got to find out my bones don't bend like silly putty, one item I'd hoped to mark off my agenda was finding a cute and overly willing partner for some sheer animalistic pleasure. (Read: Sex)Well, doing the horizontal mambo was not in the cards for me that night, as leaping down a flight of stairs like a fantastically confused gymnast apparently seemed more up my alley. Since then, of course, dealing with the brokenness has been somewhat paramount -- yet, since I have (surprise surprise) not been exactly thrilled at being rather immobile, recreational sex has still seemed something I imagined might lift my spirits.
But oh ho -- yes, life can be funny. But not "ha ha" funny. More like, "someone somewhere deserves a kick in the nads" funny. Because apparently, one of the major side effects of a somewhat major injury: Fantastic depletion of sex drive. I guess my body thinks it has more important matters to tend to just this moment.
Well screw that, I say. The whole reason it took me several days to realize I actually didn't want sex is that normally, it's really not something I have to wonder about. Sure, sex with a particular partner or in a particular setting might (note: MIGHT) require some consideration -- but really, I'm normally pretty safe to assume that my body really really wouldn't mind getting all sweaty with some fetching young lass.
And yet, I've had to inevitably face the facts. Difficult as it is to grasp, I actually don't want to have sex right now. And I gotta tell ya, I'm just a little shocked and unamused at this new discovery.
So just in case you were considering it, take some advice from one who's been there: twisting your ankle around so your toes touch your shin really isn't as much fun as you might imagine it to be.
