My brain ran a nano process and determined it was in fact a pretty good idea. There had been no nooky for ages so I agreed. I had my own needs to think of, after all. Who knew when my next opportunity for sex would present itself? How many nights had I practically begged him for some affection when he stubbornly sat in his chair watching TV and ignoring my needs?
We did the anniversary last dance and he delivered the goods. I fell asleep as happy as I possibly could be: scoring sex and future free of him all in the same evening, on top of a great steak dinner!
Unbelievably, a few weeks later, I had determined that I had gotten pregnant and I sobbed for hours and hours. I considered my options. I sobbed more, and louder. It turns out I was not only stupid enough to get married on Groundhog Day, I was also stupid enough to believe that “one for the road” was a good idea, also.
Needless to say, one more for the road was an incredibly good idea, after all. The baby seemed to know the circumstances of his creation and came into the world screaming bloody murder. He’s an almost sixteen years old now. And an ever-present reminder of what the Seven Year Itch can do on a cold winter night.
