365 Nights (17 page)

Joining the gym this time around wasn't half as bad as I had remembered, but I did wait until the end of the month so it didn't seem so flagrantly formulaic. This particular gym met my two key criteria—cheap and low-key. It was not a scene, and in fact it was so low-key it didn't really have a name . . . or if it did, I didn't know it. It was not listed in the phone book and only two trainers worked there. It was in a low-slung generic warehouse in an industrial part of town. There was no signage, so I had to follow someone over there the first time I went. There was nothing to call it, so I dubbed it the Underground Gym. I had several girlfriends who
swore
by the Underground Gym and one trainer's transforming thirty-minute workouts, and the ridiculously reasonable fees.

I had to admit these gals looked great. So I gave it a shot. My girlfriends warned me that the first sessions were rough. “Don't freak,” they said. The first day my friend and I went, we did an unseemly number of squats on a minitramp along with some other lower body torture.

My workout buddy called me the next day. “How are you?” she asked.

“Is this some kind of sick joke?” I screamed into the phone. I had done what my friends had warned against—I freaked. “I can't even go to the bathroom!” I wailed. “Once I sit down, I can't get up . . . I'm dying from squat pain!”

“Me too! Are you going back?” she asked.

“Well, they say the worst is behind us, unless I die on the loo and Brad finds me there . . . yeah, I guess I'll go back.” And two days and seventy-two ibuprofen later I was back at the Underground Gym begging for more. I was fairly diligent, going two or three times a week—caught up in that strangely pathetic New Year momentum.

But the Underground Gym keeps odd hours, and the trainers kind of set the schedule, so there were days when I came and it was closed, or my trainer wasn't there. One day I asked one of the gals why the trainer took a break at seven in the morning—I mean, that's kind of prime workout time. “Well, he's been here all night and so he goes home and sleeps for a bit.” Huh? “Yeah, don't you know? This gym trains some of the dancers from the local clubs after their shift. They come in around three or four in the morning and train.” Wow, I let that information slowly seep in. Charla shares a trainer with exotic dancers. Who woulda thunk it? I couldn't believe it either. Kevin Bacon couldn't have recorded a more remarkable connection between two groups of people—only one degree separated the finest exotic dancers in the Carolinas and me, a frumpy thirty-nine-year-old working mom of two. Brad nearly burst his appendix when he heard. “He trains exotic dancers at night? Char, that has got to be the funniest thing I've ever heard,” he said. And I admit, it was.

But after a couple of weeks of regular gym time, I can attest to the fact that it's true that when you're feeling healthy, you are more interested in intimacy. I have to admit that I had a little kick in my step, especially when it came to lovin'. In fact, when you're feeling healthy, everything is more interesting. That's why old people are cranky—they simply don't feel good, nothing about their bodies is working right, and they have chronic indigestion. And that's why kids are so happy—they have regular bowel movements, they run around and climb on things, and they sleep a lot. Eating right and exercising are good for us and, likewise (though I never would have bought it if you'd sold me on it eight months ago), so is having sex with our spouses.

One talking head on TV said that time spent with your spouse, doing something that you don't normally do together (which, ironically, before The Gift, would have been having sex), can make you feel good. I wondered whether the day I made my husband go paint pottery (something we normally don't do together and will never, ever do again, according to Brad) could have been “healthy” for our relationship? Well, not really, because all he did was marvel out loud at his incredible misfortune at being stuck in a place that he commented was surely “what hell looks like,” which kind of took all the fun out of our “quality-time outing.” But I eventually figured out what would be great time spent: We had a great grown-ups-only weekend outing at a winery, and had some scintillating conversation, yummy wine, and some lovely nuzzling. I think I'm noticing a trend here. My regular intimacy was allowing for feelings of health and wellness that begat a desire to have more sex.

Sex Was Making Me Happier.
Intimacy is a stress reliever. When there is so much responsibility in keeping the Muller boat afloat, a nice relaxing romp with Brad can be a wonderful respite, and a nice distraction from feeling like the world is going to crumble if I'm not out there battling dragons 24/7. Research I found backs this up, and I would venture to say that men across America (and even across the world) laugh out loud anytime they hear that someone paid lots of money to commission research that tells us that sex relieves stress and can release endorphins that make you feel happy and relaxed.

But as a member of the other gender, I can attest from personal experience that I was pleasantly surprised that my evening encounters would provide such moments. I had spent so much of my time pre-The Gift getting worked up over avoiding sex because the thought of it stressed me out, that I failed to see going on the offensive would serve me (and Brad) much better. After a day that included meeting the house cleaner, hustling to a teacher conference, a lunch meeting, work, and later an after-school party for my daughter that was so wild and chaotic it would drive Mother Teresa to drink, I was too exhausted for sex, but not too tired to try to forget about my hellish day. And in an odd way, that's what is so great about my daily sessions with Bad—for a few minutes I can relax, feel those little endorphins pinging around my body, and forget about my crap of a day. It's much cheaper than a massage, too (I'm a bargain shopper, remember).

Our Intimate Moments Were Making Me Feel Younger.
This is perhaps the best news of all. According to Dr. Roizen and Dr. Oz from the Real Age Institute, if you have a good sex life (and good means hitting those high notes), you can subtract eight punishing years right off your face. Yay! Forty is the new thirty-two in my book, and for Brad, having sex every day makes him practically a youngster. Why does sex keep you young? Well, it's the cumulative effect of exercise, hormones, relaxation, and hopefully an enhanced relationship with your spouse. So the fountain of youth is at hand, every day!

An active, fulfilling sex life with your spouse makes you healthier, happier, and younger, so why in the world didn't I start sooner? Instead of hanging out at the Underground Gym bitterly huffing and puffing through hundreds of sit-ups, why wasn't I hanging out solely in the bedroom? (Believe me, my husband is asking the same question when I complain about my sore quads.) Because if I'm healthier, happier, and younger, then who needs plastic surgery, Botox, and the gym? Oh
wait
, I do need the gym to raise my libido. It looks like I'm going to live longer and look better simply by doing the deed.

My personal trainer is helping me get toned (at least this month)—mastering my squats, strengthening my abs, and increasing my endurance. I wonder if there are personal intimacy coaches out there who might do the same thing. They could help folks master the schedule of intimacy, strengthen their relationship with their spouses, and increase endurance, of course. Wait, it gets better! What if I could track our intimacy schedule online and correlate it with overall household happiness? What if I could increase my sex reps as I gained strength and confidence? And then, finally I could become the lean, mean intimacy machine that I know I can be. Ha.

We all hear and read that sex is fundamentally good for us, but it seems that the benefits surrounding it and reported to us aren't enough to motivate people in long-term relationships. Dodging sex, it turns out, is pretty normal. According to the National Institute of Health, 43 percent of women aged 18-59 have sexual dysfunction (I prefer the word “issues”) at some time. Sexual problems can range from lack of interest (check) to lack of arousal (no comment) to—hold on to your panties because it gets worse—the inability even to have sex or to achieve the Big O.

I think the majority of my girlfriends would agree that a lack of interest in sex is something we all contend with at some point or time in the cycle of marriage. While there can be many physical reasons for losing interest in intimacy, there are some important emotional reasons as well.

For example, the “I'm Sorry, Do I Know You?” syndrome (aka a lack of communication between partners). How can we be intimate with a spouse whom we don't see except for five minutes in the morning, while he's in the middle of showering and flossing? It's a struggle to stay in tune with someone who spends more time with his administrative assistant and “team” at the office than with us. And while this can initially be okay because reconnection can be nice, these few and far between moments can lead to feelings of awkwardness around your partner (or your spouse taking up with said administrative assistant).

Other mood killers:
“
Is it Just Me or Is It Terribly Sad in Here?” (aka depression). Okay, I've had this, and I know that I need to do as much as I can to keep its cold and clammy hands away from my brain. (See March.) You should, too, if you please can. Depression is a drag on every part of your life, intimacy included.

Then there is the “Hey, Sperm Bank, Come Here” (aka sex = procreation only). Believing sex is only for making babies and then after that nada, no way, no how. And the old “Well, Your Beer Gut is Bigger than My Rear End” (aka fear of being rejected, underperforming, and generally not feeling good about yourself and/or poor self-image). Need I say more?

These are just some of the problems that can lead to intimacy issues. I can attest to experiencing most all of them at one time or another (and while Brad does have a bit of a beer belly during football season, I still think he's cute). And me? Well, this baby does have some back and it's not getting in the way one bit.

But we do go to the mats over his manscaping as I am trying desperately to pull him into the twenty-first-century of personal grooming. We have this big debate regarding nose hair, and Brad's eyebrows' tendency toward the Vincent Price look. Brad is
mortally
wounded when I kindly point out that his nose hair is getting in his food, or when I politely ask how he can read the paper with those caterpillars hovering on his forehead. He thinks I'm being critical and snarky, while I contend I am being helpful and snarky. I mean, if your spouse isn't going to tell you that there is spinach in your teeth or a Velcro roller still stuck in the back of your hair, then tell me, why are they even there? I assure Brad that I do not love him less when his ear hair tickles my arm at night (are you noticing a theme here?). And I assure him that I won't be offended if he tells me that an outfit is “not my best look.” Anyway, I digress. I've bought him one of those cool Sharper Image trimmer products, and can only hope that he jumps on the manscaping bandwagon. Now if I could only get him to shave his toes . . .

With all this knowledge, both from my delicate dip into the sea of information out there for all to access and my own personal findings, I decided to make a sex improvement plan. This is kind of like a home improvement plan, but without the appliances. In other words, my plan didn't involve going out and buying “marital aids” from some themed party at my neighbor's house. What this plan did involve was a more thoughtful approach to our sex life. So instead of wasting time wondering what the graveyard shift at the Underground Gym might be like, nibbling on oatmeal egg-white pancakes, or going online to track my weight fluctuation with my Internet coach, I focused on rewarding myself with the information that my gift of intimacy could be an all-in-one health tool. And I discovered that the me who had come up with this idea of daily intimacy was as much a genius as those Ph.D., M.D., grant-given researchers.

I was on the front lines, knee deep in research, and I discovered that our scheduled approach to loving, with a few side trips to places like that winery to mix it up, turned out to be serving us just fine. The benefits and the payoffs, I found, were long-term, wrinkle-reducing, serotonin-enhancing good stuff that added to Brad's super shimmy and feelings of well-being and happiness. And if that wasn't exciting enough, hey, I could always head out to the Underground Gym.

FEBRUARY

The Hallmark Moments

I sat up, horrified. “Are you kidding me? How about
no
sex for a year?”

That was not nice of me, I know. I am well aware this 365-day gift was of my own doing. But while I realized that my response was a bit of an exaggeration, I didn't think I would miss having it
every
day. I was agreeably, if not always happily, committed to our arrangement, but after that? Good question. I certainly didn't want to do this for
another
365 days, but I also didn't want to go back to having sex just on the Hallmark moments, like birthdays and Valentine's Day . . .

I was turning forty, which for some reason was okay with me. My friend once noted that children don't hit their milestones on the year, but on the half-year. So the Terrible Twos really arrive at two and a half and the Fearless Fours at four and a half and so on. Well, that applies to me, too, although I am taller and only slightly less prone to tantrums. I really got hung up on twenty-five for a lot of silly little reasons. That's when I realized that I really should drop college activities from my résumé, that I was getting carded less and less, and that I could now legally rent a car, which meant that I was officially a
responsible adult
. I then cruised with no problems straight through thirty, but stubbed my toe on thirty-five. That's when the Big Lie (see October) revealed itself to me. So here I am turning forty and it's not that big of a deal. For two reasons: (1) I'm quite distracted these days with that little ol' fortieth birthday gift I gave to Brad; and (2) I figure I'll be in some intense therapy around my forty-fifth birthday, so why not have some fun now?