“Matrimony… the final frontier. These are the voyages of the Starship Casamiento Segundo, its until-death-do-us-part mission… to explore a strange new relationship… to seek out a new life and new adventures… to boldly go where no sane couple has gone before.”
Señora recently acquired a new phone. Right now the phone is a bit annoying as it has a notification sound that, for all the world, to me, sounds like “ruh roh”. Clearly I spent far too much time watching Scooby Doo with my kidrens when… well, when they were kidrens way back in the last century. This “ruh roh” sound is probably on multiple applications, However, messing around with her phone ranks right up there with getting into her purse. It is something I avoid doing as I consider both very personal items. That, and gawd only knows what I might find.
The other night it was late, the lights were out, and Señora and I were being, shall I say, more than a little feisty. A little while into our canoodling, an application on her phone started in with notifications. “Ruh roh” it kept saying, over and over. At first it was barely impinging on my semi-crazed hormonal state (fully crazed fled years ago), but after eight or ten times, it became hard to ignore.
As it continued with the “ruh rohs” I began to feel like her phone was judging us. Was it bothered by feisty seniors? Her phone might be a super Christian for all I know. The Apostle Paul and St. Augustine espoused sexual congregation only, only in marriage, and even then solely for the purpose of procreation. It would, indeed, be a miracle – and a disaster – if Señora and I were to procreate. Perhaps the phone was pulling a 1984 and Big Brother was being judgmental about what we were doing. I basically felt like there was a hypercritical third party in our matrimonial bed adjudicating our nocturnal activities. The hormonal part of me wanted to grab the device and fling it into silence, but then I remembered what we had paid for it.
Funny time of life when logic and caution prevail over hormones – ruh roh.
And so it goes.
Which reminds me of a joke from my biochemistry class (again last century):
How do you make a hormone?
Don’t pay her!
Now days the college chemistry professor would probably be in deep water for telling such an un-woke joke. Oh well…
