Last night I was reminded that that I’m not as young as I used to be, after we “got busy” on the floor in front of the fire place.
How romantic, huh?
Well, my bones and elbows and knees and back, (and everything) are killing me.
Was it worth it? Yes.
I woke up this morning, I felt a scrape on my back, remembering a rug burn I got once when I was in college, from making out heavily (very heavily) on the carpeted floor of my boyfriend’s mom’s mini van.
Seriously. I am almost embarrassed to write that.
I got in a hilarious battle with someone the other day, we’d been talking about the year we were born and my friend made reference to my age….36.
And I go, “I’m 37, actually.”
My friend goes, “You’re 36. You were born in April of 1973.”
I was adamant, only because last month, I actually forgot my age and then did the calculation in my head.
Turns out, someone needs a calculator. That someone is me.
So, the bad news is, I am not as limber and immune to the pains of sex on the floor.
The good news is, I am one year younger than I thought I was.