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There were six minutes to go until midnight on Saturday. I had to be up at 3am for work. The choices were simple: go to bed or play with my wife.  (And I do mean play.) Working 80-90 hours during …...

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double winner

Filed Under , , on October 18th, 2014


By Seth Kabala

There were six minutes to go until midnight on Saturday. I had to be up at 3am for work. The choices were simple: go to bed or play with my wife.  (And I do mean play.)

Working 80-90 hours during some weeks, I go to bed most nights feeling like I just made it out of the sub-zero, snow-laden Siberian wilderness, narrowly escaping the jaws of hungry wolves as they snapped at my exposed skin. My clothes are shredded, legs bloody, lips cracked, eyes sunken, hair matted and missing in patches, arms criss-crossed with the drag and tear marks of thorns, but at least it’s better than the jaws of a wolf sunken deep into my flesh–the obvious analogy being a forced return to work as a civil servant for the IA Department of Revenue.

Business life oftentimes mirrors a life-or-death foot race through harsh winter land. Make that land in a war zone, unexploded ordnances buried everywhere, ready to dismember–screw that, disincorporate (thank you, Breaking Bad, for expanding my vocabulary) you the moment you veer from your chartered course.

I’m so dog tired (see what I did there?), I sometimes forget that I’ve already locked the doors, and I go around to check them again. I’ve been known to do this many times before snapping out of my daze and realizing that repeating one action is not getting me any closer to being asleep.

I’ll sit in the bathroom on my throne and strategically plan out the next five years, remaining in place, legs long gone numb, long after my paperwork has been completed, and stumble to my feet like I’m doing the walk of shame. I’ll get lost in my own head again as I floss, brush, and mouthwash (new verb alert)–in that order. (If you floss after brushing, you’re the weirdo, not me.) Sometimes I’ll forget to brush and will go straight to bed, re-emerging after a nightmare about vile alien creatures oozing around inside my mouth, waking to discover reality is only slightly less horrible.

I’ll shame-walk back to the bathroom, trying hard to avoid breathing out my mouth, lest I obtain the status of patient zero in the next bio-hazard viral outbreak, ground zero being my disgusting mouth. I’ll splash cold water on my face, get my wits back enough to complete the routine, and make it back to bed, my walk by this time downgrading to something between a Vegas street-walker and whatever the hell Bruce Jenner has turned into. (It’s ok, Wheaties box. Go ahead and cry. I, too, feel sad that he’s turned into a weirdo.)

Then I’ll lie down next to my wife, kiss her goodnight, exchange “love you”s, roll over to my left side, and go to sleep.

Then the neighbor downstairs wakes up.

This neighbor is otherwise known as my fun stick, my heavy saber, my means to night ride her, and other sundry cheap porno title euphemisms for the male member.

I guess I shouldn’t complain that I’m still crazy horny for my wife. After 11 years of marriage, we still have sex at least three times per week. I know because I’ve logged our activity. (And they say journaling is for nerds. Ha!)

When I’m lucky enough to escape the wolves while keeping the blood inside my veins, my body doesn’t want to have sex; it wants sleep. Or is it my mind that wants sleep; my body, sex? Or is it the mysterious third option that is the sentient member, the phallic Washington Monument with a mind and an agenda all its own?

Four minutes past midnight (hey, this is real life, not a porno), I figuratively notched another mark in the bedpost. After all, furniture’s expensive. Can’t just go around marring it up. What about resale value?

More often than not, I’m proud to say, I’ve chosen sex over sleep, so even if you wake up the next day with an appearance that sends people scattering into the streets, screaming about the dawn of the zombie apocalypse, you’ll have added some extra depth and strength to your marital foundation.

And think about this: if you start sex before midnight on Saturday and end in the am on Sunday, you get to count it for both weeks.

Double score.


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Seth Kabala

About: Seth Kabala
Seth is an entrepreneur, writer, musician, family man, and juggler of balls--big ones. He lives with his wife and three children in Portland, OR.

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