Five (Lame) Excuses for Not Making the First Move Tonight

Why you should stop making excuses and start getting saucy. Your move!
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A couple sitting far apartThe excuse: It’s the last thing on my to-do list.

Why it’s lame: No question I’m a busy gal. Two young kids, full-time job, no personal assistant and an obsessive, compulsive need to live in a spotless house and consume fresh produce on a consistent basis. And yet I somehow manage to log onto Facebook, eBay, Twitter and two or three dozen other (not work-related) Web sites a day, and chat with my sister on the opposite coast several times a week. I get regular pedicures, have an occasional lunch with a friend and I actually saw two movies last year in their entireties. My husband once calculated that I spend approximately 20 minutes a day fluffing various bedding items around the house. If I could drop ten tweets, one phone call, two freshly painted pinkie toes and live with eight squishy pillows for one lousy day, I could easily squeeze in some nookie. Sort of a no-brainer when you think about it.

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The excuse: I’m not in the mood.

Why it’s lame: Of course I’m not in the mood. Without a penis, it’s hard to get spontaneous erections. And see the bit about wife/mom/drone/hausfrau, above. But just because I’m not walking around with a hard-on and have perpetual dishpan hands and a constant parade of looming deadlines doesn’t mean I couldn’t get in the mood with, say, a little neck nuzzling or a nice back massage. But am I asking for these things? Nope. Instead, most nights I’m slipping into my frumpy PJs and tucking into a mediocre book. I repeat: Lame.

The excuse: It’s emasculating.

Why it’s lame: “I want you so badly I can taste it. Turn off that effing TV and take me now!” Yeah, I can see where that would make a man feel like a big, fat cream puff. Next.

The excuse: I’m exhausted.

Why it’s lame: As legitimate as this one might be, nobody is asking me to climb Mt. Everest here. We’re talking fifteen minutes; twenty max. Lying down. Engaging in an activity that ultimately—once I’m engaged—is almost always a toe-curling good time, or at least preferable to a game of checkers. And really, post-coital sleep is the closest thing to hibernation humans will ever achieve (without drugs). With the fortune I could save not buying Tylenol PM anymore, maybe I’ll be able to afford that personal assistant after all.

Jenna McCarthy contributes frequently to magazines including Self, Glamour, Parents, Ladies Home Journal and many others. She is the author of several parenting books and is hard at work on her next project, a practical guide to living with and continuing to love the TV-addicted, sex-obsessed, listening-impaired Neanderthal you married.


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