They post articles about how sexist our president is. And op-eds decrying Harvey Weinstein and Hollywood. They are all about #metoo hashtagging. (These are not bad things! Just wait to see my point.) They are my friends on Facebook (which is why I’m writing this here rather than on my “IRL” blog, because I’m not ready to be that publicly confrontational yet).
When one of my friends shared an article about Colin Firth and his wife, Livia Giuggioli, separating several years ago and she had a romantic involvement with another man during that separation, I shouldn’t have been surprised, although I was, to see all the comments criticizing Giuggioli. They were appalled that any woman lucky enough to be married to Firth would choose to sleep with another man. They have this idea of Firth being a perfect man and since they love the image they have of him, any woman who would deign to think differently must be crazy. The judginess of it all, after everything they’ve posted about sexual assault and misogyny, was more than I could stomach.
I called them out on it. There was no response to my comment but also no new comments on my friend’s post. Did I get through to them or did the conversation naturally lose momentum by the time I’d made my comment?
Ladies, we have to stop doing this. After all the outrage and revelations of sexual assault in the workplace last year, we can’t turn around and judge a woman for choosing to separate from her husband or have an outside romance (with a consenting adult) no matter how dreamy we find the public persona of that man. One person isn’t always the right person for someone else for eternity and everyone has the right to assess their relationships and make decisions about staying with a person or not. Also, these are people we don’t know personally. We know nothing about the reality of their relationship.
Just hopping into the shower.
Up late last night watching the Olympics and dropping cookie crumbs in my cleavage.
… in my ugly cardigan sweater.
Smut Marathon voting… (see the February 12 post)
I tried something new today. I’m not a cycling person but I wanted to take a break from running with something with less impact on my knees. I’m not sure I loved this. One problem is that it gets my heart rate up but doesn’t count as any steps on my Fitbit. Unless I’m having sex, I want my heart rate to be from plenty of steps.
I love rainbow-stripe clothing. It makes me so happy to see those colorful stripes.
That’s the Wicked Wednesday post I started to write to go along with a FebPhotofest picture for today.
But last night Mr. Scott took out a toy we haven’t used in awhile and it reminded me of the time we used it, which happens to be the last time I saw a rainbow, also.
We’d dropped off our daughter for a sleepover with friends and rushed home to have sex before we had to go out ourselves. We were going to a surprise party so we had to leave by a certain time. With that toy, however, Mr. Scott kept me on edge for so long that by the time I finally came, there was no time for a shower. I barely had enough time to throw my clothes on and smooth down my hair a bit.
It was a summer evening. It was sunny between passing thunderstorms. On the drive to the party, down a long, straight highway, one of the largest, brightest rainbows I’d ever seen stretched over the road. It stayed with us for several miles before the next storm caught up to us and made it dissipate.
I knew I looked like I’d just had sex. I wondered if people at the party would smell it on me. I felt sexy and confident. I wanted to say to everyone there, “We are parents and in our forties and we just had great sex.” Instead, however, I brought up the amazing rainbow we’d seen on the drive down. Most others had seen it, too. And I wondered who else had the same pre-party secret as us.