Are Fig Newton’s Better than Sex?
Tags: Satire, Dead Bedroom, Love And Relationships, Love And Sex, Marriage

Are Fig Newton’s Better than Sex?

I don’t think so…

Wikipedia.org

It started at the grocery store.

I eyed the end display at checkout: Fig Newton’s, two for $6.

Ok. Hubby loves those, I thought. I should buy these wretched non-cookies for him.

I arrived home and walked into the mudroom, “Guess what, hon?”

“Shhh,” hubby says, putting his finger over his lips. “I’ll be with you in a bit. I’m finishing up something.” He’s on the work from home rotation. Ah, Covid sucks.

I won’t hold my breath waiting.

He’ll get around to getting the heavy bags out of my car at some point. Not fast enough for me, though. Ten minutes pass.

“When are you getting the bags?” I asked, shouting from the kitchen. “I’m already putting away the groceries I brought inside.”

“Do I work for you?” he bellowed.

No, but I wish you did.

“I’m working,” he announced.

Like I’m not working every day. No matter how much I did, it was never enough.

Dammit. Now I regretted buying those damn treats.

“You don’t deserve them,” I muttered.

When he finally came in with the extra groceries a half-hour later, I said, “I bought you something you love!”

“Yeah? What?”

“Your favorite cookie! Fig Newtons!”

His eyes lit up. “Ok. Who did you hit in the parking lot?”

“No one!” I smiled.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m absolutely sure. I bought them because I knew they would make you happy,” I beamed.

“How much is this going to cost me?”

“I don’t know. Like $6 and change?” I answered.

Of course, I knew what he meant. I chose to ignore the psychic cost. I allayed my guilt from cheating by being extra nice to my hubby. Sometimes.

He probably thought I was Sybil, with multiple personality syndrome. One day I would be kind and attentive, and other days, I was distant and moody. Feeling trapped in this sexless marriage that stifled me year after year.

After dinner that evening, he sat down across from me on the couch, meticulously opening the package of Fig Newtons.

“Having trouble there, hon?” I asked, joking.

“No…you know how I am,” he responded.

Oh boy, do I know how you are.

He opened every box carefully. Never tearing or ripping. Measured and practical. Not impulsively breaking open the package in his haste. Not like me. I was willy nilly by comparison.

As he bit into a cookie, “This is better than sex,” he exclaimed.

“That’s because you don’t have any,” I blurted out.

Whoops. Why didn’t I think before I spoke?

It should have been “we,” not “you.” Ack! “We don’t have any…” oh well. The damage was done.

He looked up, surprised, but didn’t say anything.

Doesn’t he remember?

Of course, he doesn’t.

We hadn’t had sex in seven years. It could be eight years, now — long ago. You would think it weighed heavily enough on my mind to know the number, but I had given up counting.

I wanted to say, “Don’t you miss it?” But I was afraid of his answer.

“You’re too heavy.”

“You can’t do it the way I like anymore.”

I didn’t want to hear any of it — no more excuses. I’ve had enough of them.

As my mother constantly reminds me, “You should control your tongue.”

I wish I could control his.

Why bother? Nothing was going to change.

No sex was sufficient for him.

If I needed intimacy, I would have to cheat or leave.

I didn’t want to leave, so I cheated.

A cookie wasn’t better than sex. No cookie was, even the white chocolate macadamia nut ones from Costco. And those are the bomb, I assure you. Much better than a dry Fig Newton.

I didn’t marry a man with taste.

But maybe I could fuck one.