Up until recently, if anyone had bothered to ask about my sex drive (which they never did), I would have said it was normal. I enjoyed sex as much as the next woman. But like many urban professionals, I was often too busy thinking about, say, the implications of some new regulation to give much thought to the sexual impulses that spiraled through my brain each day like dust motes.
Now that I have traded in my dry-cleaned, button-down, inoffensively colored work shirts for a set of neon green pajamas, the dust is gathering attention.
Trying out that recipe for linguine in a sundried tomato-wine sauce is really just code for doing it against the kitchen table. Discussing the posthumous publication of selected excerpts from Elizabeth Bishop's notebooks leads to sex against a bookcase. Don't even get me started on watching Planet Earth in Blue Ray format.
The desire for humpin' and bumpin' didn't start the minute I lost my job. Like most over-achieving, over-educated, Type-A people, I had been told my whole life that the world was my pearl-stuffed oyster. I'd been informed that hard work and determination would take me far. So I had every reason to believe my current status as a jobless American would only be temporary. I would beat the odds.
I used to apply my over-active mind to getting an education and succeeding at work. After I was laid off, I began going on mental Wikipedia adventures, teaching myself about topics as far-flung and useless as Thalassemia, the history of geology and the social impact of the television show My So-Called Life.