How to f*ck and crochet without putting out an eye: Adventures in multi-tasking

I have a new boyfriend. Not in the brand new butterflies, is he going to call me back way. In the we’ve been together for less than a year but he’s really awesome and we’re shacking up and I think this could be “the one” kind of way. He’s super smart and just dorky enough to not know he’s adorable. Adorkable. And it’s nice. And after setting up several couples and listening to the bliss of many others it’s finally my turn. It’s been so long since I’ve dated someone so seriously that I’ve forgotten how different it is to be a “we” than an “I”. But as great as it is to no longer be the third wheel and not to be asked when I’m going to settle down or have all the guys that I had crushes on tell me they just couldn’t understand why I was single because I’m sooo awesome, I’m a little disappointed in myself for becoming one of those girls I swore I’d never be. Yes. I’m that friend. The one you haven’t talked to since she started dating that guy. The one who always invites him when you thought it was just going to be girl’s night. The one who talks about her boyfriend. All. The. Time.

It has recently dawned on me that I’m just as bad as my friends who have had kids. Yesterday I stood outside the gym with a friend who I have seen three times in the past thirteen months because she has a small barnacle attached to her at all times now and she’s been adjusting to the new world of motherhood. And every time I’ve seen her or any of my other new-mom friends I’m filled with trepidation because as an only child and non mother I don’t understand the wonder of child rearing and all of the accessories that go with it. I know I enjoy sending students home at the end of the day, not keeping them forever. I love children’s books, but I don’t get excited over bottles or organic baby food, or binkys, or diapers and their contents. I have a cat so I know what it’s like to clean up after something that shits in the house, but I enjoy that I can leave it alone for days at a time, or get drunk without having to worry about who’s going to take it to the ER if something happens, or shave and tattoo it without someone calling Social Services. Anyway, I stood there listening to her talk about the stress of motherhood and lamenting the costs of childcare because she and her husband are getting to the point where they would like to rejoin society, a move I fully support. Then I spoke. And like an out-of-body experience I listened to myself. Oh sure, I touched on my life, the students came back to school this week, I’ve been trying to work out more but I hurt my foot, blah blah blah. But mostly I talked about him. His job. His plans for our vacation. His family. He walks to work. He cooks. I’m exactly like my friends with kids in that I talk about him constantly and I’m sure that everyone else thinks it’s the most interesting topic, too. Except my kid is 36 and we kick it naked style.

And it doesn’t end there. I used to be “master of my domain” which according to George Costanza makes one smarter.  I used to be funny. I used to be quick-witted. I had snappy comebacks and wrote hilarious stories about ridiculous topics. I used to draw and paint and knit and crochet. I used my pent-up sexual frustrations and longings to creative ends. I used to be crafty but now I spend my time comfortably resting with my head in his lap as his soft touch grazes my skin and he gently strokes my hair and…huh? See what I mean. I was funny. Now I think in porn. But not the awesome nasty porn I used to think of with body parts and objects being shoved into places they probably weren’t designed to go in. No, I think in respectful, soft core love-making type porn. Really, I’m starting to suck. Soft core suck.

Admitting any problem is the first step, though, and like my new mother friend, I’m ready to reenter society. My quandary is how to fit my old life together with my new and after studying upon this conundrum for a bit I believe I’ve discovered the answer. In order to make more time for and friends and satisfy my crafty, creative streak, I’m just going to have to learn how to crochet and fuck at the same time without putting out an eye. After careful consideration I’ve decided that crochet is the best medium for sex crafting. I don’t have a ceramics studio with a wheel to recreate Ghost. Collage and painting are too messy and have the potential post coitus cleaning problem as that time I tried to recreate the food scene from 9 1/2 Weeks. Too sticky. Drawing might work doggystyle, but any other position is just too bumpy leading to frustration and eventually loss of arousal. Knitting needles are too long and need I even point out that there are two of them. So dangerous! We’re crafting, not starting an abortion clinic! Simple crochet techniques require but a hook and a skein of yarn and with a simple pattern there is very little counting involved. I imagine myself making beautiful scarves for my long neglected friends whom my multi tasking will allow me free time to see, all while continuing the intimacy with New Boyfriend to which I’ve become accustomed. I’ll need to look into yoga classes for him because I don’t believe the Full Bridge back bend position is available on our Wii Fit and this seems like the most likely to work as I can just prop myself right up on that pony for a hands free ride.

Yes, Friends, Kimtastic is making a social comeback. I’m happy with the tag along that I’m bringing with me, but I’ll try to release my suction cups and leave him home occasionally. And Friends, you are going to look beautiful in the new scarves I will make for you. White looks good on everyone.

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