Many women think that as the thrill of monogamy wanes and their partner’s spare tire waxes, they start to fantasize during sex that their spouse is someone else. My husband is now, with the passing of the great Paul Newman, The Hottest Man Alive as far as I’m concerned. But one night some weeks ago as I nestled against THMA, my afterglow was dimmed by a disturbing realization: I’d been imagining that I was someone else. And this was not my first time I have been doing it.
Lurking off to the bathroom, I flicked on the eco-friendly fluorescent lights: Bags hung under my darkcircled eyes and weird bumps were erupting on my forehead. I was twenty pounds overweight, my durty hair was scraped into a clump on top of my head, and I was dressed in a remarkably unflattering combination of a nursing top and maternity leggings (my 24-hour wardrobe since my daughter’s birth in July).
It wasn’t exactly news to me that I’d lost the thread but I’d fallen into an odd torpor that prevented action.. Which is funny, because I don’t usually tend toward depression. When the chips are down, I am more the berserker rage or hyperventilating anxiety type. I always say, Why sit at home feeling sad when you can walk over to a boutique and get into a senseless screaming match with a salesperson over some throw pillows, and then go back home feeling silly but also, better, oddly? Not that I’ve actually ever done that… but Todd, the store manager, if you’re reading this, your return policy sucks as bad as your attitude!
Anyway, I did not think this was a true depression. It was more that after years of big projects— graduate school, finding a job, snagging a boyfriend, getting married, buying a house, having children, and juggling work with it all—I was lost and exhausted on every level: physical, psychological, and spiritual. Okay, it’s time to bring sexy back, I told the greasy, gray apparition in the mirror.
If my life were a movie or even a stupid TV show, this is the point at which a team of producers, munchkins, or gay men would whisk me off in an Escalade and make over my life in a peppy montage of Pilates, hair-curling, salad-eating, and closet-cleaning. But as I am a woman, I knew I’d be doing this the old-fashioned way: with a self-help book.








