My husband and I have been moving crap and painting for the past week.  His libido is, if anything, higher  than usual. I suspect that his not having sex ‘on tap’ has given his appetite a chance to ripen.  Mine, however, is almost non-existent which is something that is completely uncharacteristic for me. 

As I was apologetically trying to explain why  I wasn’t interested, it came to me.  Having sex in these circumstances is like watching a horror movie. 

When I watch a horror movie, I am that person who’s yelling at the screen “Shut the door.  Shut the door!  What is wrong with you, shut the dooor!!“  Then the girl gets killed because she was too busy chatting on the phone to shut and lock her door.

Usually my stuff is under control and I feel, truly, uninhibited by anything in my life.  It’s basically handled and I don’t to spare any moments thinking about it.  It is a system sustainable with very little effort on my part.  Oh, but throw a wrench in that routine and my concentration is somewhere else completely. 

In this instance, I know I will be having plenty of sex over the next several decades.  But moving?  I only have until tomorrow to move out of this apartment and into the love bungalow.  And as time grows short, and I edge ever closer to being stressed out, the last  thing I want to do is to take time to do something – er, someone –  where I have to divert my concentration.  Sex is not a stress reliever for me.

The moral of this tragedy?  When my stuff isn’t handled, my ’stuff’ isn’t available.