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Sexhaustion, yet another reason not to move to the 'burbs

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Even a non-hedge fund language speaker can understand this simple yet somewhat secret formula:

(75*2)/CT=NS

For the mathematically inept and/or the unknowing Manhattanite, this unspoken formula is translated as: 150 minutes of round trip commuting time = NO SEX!

It’s just too damn exhausting a day! LIE or LIRR, Metro North or Amtrak, no matter which way you make your way, it’s a buzz kill that can not be overcome without a large dose of high-school level hormones. Even as the relatively content person I am--my two basic needs being consistent sex and making my mortgage payment--as an ex-Manhattanite I find myself desperately missing the now-elusive weekday romp.

I know I have the will. It's in there somewhere.

But I just can’t find it.

I must have left it on the train.

You think your day is tough? Twelve to 14 hours a day reading or writing contracts, editing books, making trades, dealing with old ladies on Medicare or whatever it is you are paid to do? Now add the parking garage, the railroad, Penn Station and a possible subway or bus ride. Think you might still be ‘in the mood’ now? I think not.

The end of the day schedule hasn’t changed by way of your children of course. Baths and pajamas, deserts and brushing teeth, reading and stories. You still have to ‘perform’ in that sense anyway.

My LIRR monthly ticket is getting punched daily, not me, and I can’t even blame my lovely, gorgeous and intelligent wife! She looks like a million bucks. She still falls asleep during Housewives of Long Island or some such drivel but when I was still living in civilization (63rd & Third)  I could usually rally her for the cause.

Here in the expansive rolling hills of the dismal and somewhat depressing suburbs, there is simply no chance.

I remember the need, but all I feel is the exhaustion. I dream of the old days. A quickie after work in the basement laundry room, a secret rendezvous in the master bath, a shared shower after the kids' bedtime. Now, dinner ends at 10:30 pm, and 'dessert' is just a distant taunt.

My advice to those of you with one eye on a stroller and the other on a 4-bedroom Dutch colonial: Put up and shut up with the preschool admissions essays, the elevator that won't accommodate your Mountain Buggy, and the toy store formerly known as your apartment.

Save the romance.

Don't move.

Sincerely,

Anonymous in Syosset

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