I'm firing the people who clean our house. Apparently, they're killing my sex life.
The Wall Street Journal, known internationally as the Masters and Johnson of financial reporting and research, wrote this week about a study that finds the more housework husbands and wives do, the more likely they are to have sex.
Sex with each other, I should note. Cybersex, actual physical affairs and going solo were not mentioned, so I can only assume that when one spouse scrubs the shower grout, even if it is with some Bon Ami, that the other spouse is the sole beneficiary of said scrubbing.
After reading this, I thought back to the time when My Love and I did all the housework. It was when we first moved in together, living in sin and overly indulging in it as young people in the throes of new love tend to do. We spent every weekend at our townhouse dusting away the cobwebs, waxing the linoleum and polishing the knobs …
Then we did the housework.
Sometime after the first month of this cleansing yet apparently dirty bliss, I recall My Love -- the Febreeze blowing through her hair -- moaning longingly into a starlit summer evening, "Oh, baby ... screw this. I'm hiring a service."
Had I known then what I know now!
Was it me that drove her away?
She had always criticized my haphazard folding of the laundry back then, but I laughed at it.
"If you don’t like how I do it, then you can do it yourself," I scoffed.
So she did. For a while.
But we know the pleasure of folding by one's self is fleeting. That's when My Love went outside our relationship.
She hired a 300-pound, cigarette-smoking, former addict and single mom whose beefy biceps could have crushed my windpipe before you said "lemony-fresh Pledge." Every Thursday morning, she came to our condo and every Thursday afternoon, she left the place gleaming and spotless.
And, in retrospect, nookie-free.
Our love life has clearly waned in the quantity department since those lust-filled days of Pine-Sol and Easy Off. My mission, therefore, is clear:
Every weekend, participate in the dirtiest, wettest ménage à trois ever -- just me, My Love and Mr. Clean.
(Note: Illustration by Michael Witte for the Wall Street Journal)
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