I'm considering Sleep Divorce....It’s three a.m. and the mass lying on its back next to me is emitting unearthly sounds. I awaken, surfacing from a dream in which I’ve tried to weave the snorts, rasps, whistles, and jagged breathing into the plot. Clad only in a polka-dotted bikini, I’d been floating through a field of daisies towards Freddy, my third-grade boyfriend, while my husband lay serenely unbothered by his own tortured cacophony.
I love my husband. We spoon perfectly, taking comfort in one another’s warm, pliant presence. Randy and I watch TV shows and tennis tournaments in bed, snuggled with our small mutt Zadie, all of us munching popcorn.
Awake, we’re blissful. But turn off the lights, shut off the electronics, and we join the ranks of couples contemplating divorce. Sleep divorce, that is....
This past year I started again. I hadn’t slept around in years but now I do It regularly. I relish the delicious illicitness, that feeling of surrendering to a higher power. The desire is overwhelming at times. When I succumb, I savor the sense that I’m slipping out of myself, completely letting go. I crave the cool Egyptian cotton or silken Italian leather beneath my bare skin before giving myself over.
I confess. I’m a slave to the nap.
I’d like to blame the pandemic. The fear of catching a potentially fatal illness. Or losing someone else to it. Maybe it’s age. I’m 65. I’ve lived a lot. Run too many miles, hit too many tennis balls, worked too many all-nighters. But I think it’s more a capitulation, an acknowledgement that it’s okay to be tired. Napping has become my friend....
   My mother has been gone more than fifteen years. She died at 73 on the family room sofa, where she wanted to be. Surrounded by her books, the home she lov...
For years, advertisers have tried to convince women that we should be ashamed of any aroma that might be leaching out of our Southern Hemisphere. A quick online search for “vaginal odor products” yields nearly five million treatment options including one called “Private Party Vaginal Probiotic” and another, a complete “Vaginal Health Kit,” in case just one product doesn’t nip the problem in the bud. Thank god someone who actually has one is finally reassuring us that, gee, our vaginas smell terrific!
I’ve barely caught up with the aforementioned candle, when, lo and behold, Gwyneth’s back in the laboratory....
During the last two-and-a-half months of staying at home and waiting for the coronavirus to seep under my door, I’ve been watching my hair go gray. What else wa...
I’m not going to be awarded the Medal of Honor for my behavior during the global pandemic.
As the media issued dire warnings about massive, inevitable deaths f...
There’s
no time like the beginning of a new year to atone for our bad behavior. Let’s
face it, who hasn’t misbehaved on the tennis court, especially during a l...
Turn off the "idiot box" and read this because it’s Mother’s Day this Sunday, a time to honor the women who nurtured us. And thanks to Momisms, they’ll always be with us. ...
Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy people and I adore food. I just prefer them outside of my abode. This story is about a well-intentioned dinner turned bad....
Years later, as his memory disintegrated, the activities director at my father’s assisted living residence planted a single rose bush for his enjoyment....
Karla Araujo is a humorist and freelance feature writer in Washington, D.C. She's written everything from Triscuit boxes to essays on National Orgasm Day and passing gas in yoga class. Most important of all, she's been assured she's way Better After 50.
