I Missed the Cutoff For Nationals by a Full Point

After sex a couple of nights ago, I tried to slip seductively out of bed and instead rolled off the edge of the mattress, cracked my elbow on the dresser, and ate carpet (not a sexual euphemism).

It had been that kind of sex that started out with my husband crawling into bed and whispering into my ear, “It’s been a long time.  I might’ve forgotten how,” and ended with me sporting a Bride of Frankenstein Beehive and a smile.  It had been a long time.  Life gets busy, yo.  And then we do, I guess.  And then I end up catching my fall with my face.  Again, not a euphemism.

Down there on the floor, as I flipped myself over like some groaning, hobbled sex-for-sport turtle, I thought: Really glad this isn’t a first date.

Nothing from the top of the bed.  No “you OK?”  No “Where’d you go, sexiful playmate?”  Nothing.

“Hello?”  I call up.

Then I see this*

“Eight?”  I ask.

“It was a ten until you got to the dismount.”

.

*recreated last night.  He was so apprehensive.  “It’s my first time on your blog, Anne.” he says.
“Are you OK with it?”  I ask.
“……..sure.”  He says, looking at his shoes for a moment before he can agree.  This from the guy who was completely OK with google maps pajama pics