It occurs to me that my mom stops by this blog every morning to see how I'm doing and get a giggle, but today I have taken that from her. So mom (and everyone else that doesn't like to read my overshares), click the word Pooba to read Pooba's Guide To Surviving Your Colonoscopy. It'll give you the comic relief your life so deserves.
For the rest of you, let's talk statistics. I bet that's not where you thought I was going with this post. I wanted to share two statistics with you. I'm not really sure that first is a statistic. (I barely passed Statistics.) When I was like 17ish I heard that boys think about sex once every three seconds and girls think about it once every ten seconds. I was completely caught off guard by this. I hardly ever thought about sex. I definitely didn't think about it every ten seconds and every three seconds...is that even possible? They weren't kidding when they said it was all boys thought about.
The second little bit of information is a more commonly passed around tidbit, which is that women hit their sexual prime in their thirties. I am now 29 years and 8 months old and if this past week is any indication of what my thirties hold, so help me God. I'm starting to believe that thinking about sex once every three seconds isn't that often and only once every ten seconds sounds like, well, never.
I require no outside stimulation either. I could be standing in line at the Wal-Mart and the woman in front of me could be an obese woman with unkempt hair and dirty sweatpants with a Cheeto stuck to her butt and her husband could give off a smell that resembled a mix of B.O., battery fluid and dead opossum and I'd be all, "You know what I could go for?" (I'll give you a hint, it's not Cheetos) And just like that it comes on, like a horny hot flash. The lights become blinding, the sounds around me dull and my brain starts to scream at me. "WHERE IS YOUR HUSBAND AND WHY ARE HIS PANTS STILL ON?" Then I start to think about how Matt will be home at 4:00 and wonder if 4:30 is an acceptable bedtime for my kids.
I can understand how from the outside looking in this kind of thing might sound awesome. It's not. I honestly feel like I could go crazy from this. STRAIGHT CRAZY. The idea of spending an entire decade in this sex hyperdrive makes me feel like weeping. Seriously. Like outright weeping and possible gnashing of teeth and tearing of clothes. Shoot. That was supposed to be a Bible reference. Ugh.
In preparation of the ten year battle I'll apparently be having with my sex drive I've begun to compile a list of ways to kill the mood.
1) Keep a picture of Mickey Rourke within arm's length at all times.
Did you just throw up in your mouth a little too?
2) Play video games. There's a reason that the boys in high school/college that played massive amounts of video games didn't have girlfriends. They were focused on achieving a goal of higher importance, such as saving Princess Peach, than acquiring a lady friend.
3) Avoid Wal-Mart, dirty people, fat people, smelly people and above all else, Cheetos.
4) Think about cat vomit. This tactic might only throw me off the scent for a minute or two but I'll take what I can get.
I'm not sure this list will get me through the decade so I'm open to suggestions.