Let’s
start out with the parental warning – this week’s column deals with issues of
an adult nature. In fact, it’s all about sex. But since this is a family
newspaper, we won’t be using that word.
Instead,
let’s call if falafel. Because like the word we’re not using, falafels are wonderful and I don’t have them near as
often as I’d like. Though I could, if I really set my mind to it.
As
with so many things in life, when it comes to falafel, it’s all about timing.
Now,
I’m not complaining about my falafel life; Mrs. Taylor (we’re officially
dropping the “formerly Lori Frankforter” thing, at her request; she’s always
hated her last name and doesn’t like being reminded of it in this column) is
wonderful.
It’s
just that we’re not having falafel as often as we used to. Sure, sure, I’ve
been around long enough to know that when you first start sharing falafel with
someone new, you just can’t seem to get enough. Falafel, I mean.
At
first, you want falafel most every day, sometimes twice a day. Falafel seems
like the most amazing thing in the world and you’re convinced your falafel is
better than anyone else’s in the history of the world.
You
may even find yourselves promising each other that you’ll never let 24 hours
pass without at least a little quickie
falafel.
But
time passes and the day finally comes. You or your beloved decide you’d rather
watch the season premiere of “Law & Order” than enjoy yet another falafel. Eventually,
you’re having falafel once a week, maybe every other week.
And
then a lot of time passes. You’re not
kids anymore. You’re in your forties, your fifties and even – like me – your
sixties. You never expected to live this long. Falafel, while still wonderful
and one of your favorite things, is no longer something you can’t live without.
To
make matters worse, there’s that timing thing I mentioned earlier. The problem,
it seems to me, is that men and women – even geezers like Mrs. Taylor and me – while
we still love falafel, rarely love it at the same time. See, different things
put us in the mood for falafel.
For
instance, nothing puts Mrs. Taylor in the mood for falafel more than me working
in the yard all day. Apparently, seeing me out there in my baggy gardening
pants, the sweat soaking through my smelly T-shirt to highlight my rippling
triceps (look this is MY column, lemme tell the story my way) really gives her
a craving for falafel.
Likewise,
when she comes to hear my weekend rock band play a show, she’s likely to start
thinking about falafel. I’m not a great musician, but apparently there’s
something about seeing me holding a guitar and singing really loud that makes
her forget what a nerd I am in real life.
Unfortunately,
real life won’t let me forget I’m 61 and have a gimpy foot, a present from a
botched surgery. By the time I’m done playing four sets or working six hours in
the back yard, I am beat! Falafel is the LAST thing I want. I want my pills. I
want a beer. I want my recliner and a couple episodes of “Mystery Science
Theater 3000.”
I
don’t want falafel.
When
DO I want falafel? Well, on “date night” (if you’re a couple, you should have
one of these!) Mrs. Taylor spends an hour or two getting dolled up. She puts on
one of her slinky little dresses, curls her hair, works whatever other magic it
is women perform behind closed bathroom doors.
When
she walks out, ready for our evening, whoo boy, let me tell ya, I want falafel
and how. But Mrs. T doesn’t want to put all that work into getting beautiful,
then ruin it with a heaping helping of impromptu falafel. She wants to go out!
So.
That’s
the problem with married falafel. It’s not insurmountable, at least not yet.
And I understand that if it ever becomes so, there’s a pill for that. One
that’ll help a guy remember why he was so crazy about falafel in the first
place.
With
any luck, that’s still a decade off, but I am open to the idea when the time
comes.
After
all, falafel with someone you love should be just as good the last time as it
was the first.
(616)
730-1414
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