Suck My Toe And Write Me Poetry

I watched Girls today on DVR (is there any other way to watch anything?) and I loved it. Particularly the last scene, in which Adam and Hannah are taking a bubble bath together. I can’t think of a better way to close out the day.

I’m in love with Adam, of course. For the same reason I was in love with Jordan Catalano, Pacey Witter and Dylan McKay: because I’m easy.

I know these people don’t really exist. But I see Adam and Hannah and I’m like, ‘you see? That’s Rich’s problem. He’d never recite broadway lines while sucking on my big toe like that. Because he’s a terrible human being.’

So, ok. Eff the entertainment industry for plastering photoshopped anorexics on magazines and showing us how to best dress a ‘curvy’ figure. Or Satan’s porthole stillshots of Mila Kunis without makeup. Yes, it’s awful. We have a lot of work to do for our children to navigate these silicon waters and make it to shore without an eating disorder. Ok.

But what about the guys? How on earth can they match up to Adam tearing out of his tortured soul apartment, FaceTime sprinting through the city and scooping Hannah to safety? They just can’t. At best my man can surprise me with a Dunkin Donuts coffee in the morning, and already by then I’m cursing his name for not leaving on my bedside table a charcoal portrait of me sleeping. Maybe adorned with a burgundy tulip and a note that reads: left early to hit the gym before catching a few waves. Don’t be alarmed if I don’t answer the phone on the first ring, I have to stop at the studio after my meeting with the executive team at my law firm. Also, I have another brain surgery scheduled this afternoon. I’ll be home in time for dinner, but don’t worry about cooking: I’ll pick up some chinese and then we’ll make love in the room that overlooks the ocean. I’ll pull your hair like you like, then we’ll read together by the fireplace while it snows outside and then maybe a midnight dip in our rooftop infinity pool. I love you, my love.

P.S.: I know that you’re capable of supreme professional success, but that you stay at home with the children because we both agree it’s best for the family. I admire everything that you do, and I know that you could do everything better than me if you had the time.

P.P.S.: There are warm cookies in the oven.

So fine, Rich. I’m sorry. But here’s a general note to men everywhere: those of us who can peruse the latest IN TOUCH without a pair of sweatpants and a bucket of chocolate chip cookie dough are strong women indeed. Let’s make a deal: we’ll stop needing to have sex in the dark because we know you don’t give a sh*t about our thigh cellulite…IF you don’t labor around the house like an extra on the Walking Dead. Voice to us those original thoughts you keep hidden in that barbarian lockbox. Tell us what you think about the movie you saw last week. Ask us where we want to go on that family trip we’re never going to take. Answer the stupid questions we ask you all day, just to keep the conversation going.

We both have perfect versions of ourselves we’ll never realize. Will you ever be as strangely sexy as Adam? No. But you’ve got your own magic in there we’re dying to see.

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