Sometimes when I touch down in a NYC airport songs float through my mind like I’m listening to a soundtrack. Sometimes it’s The Beastie Boys, “No Sleep ‘Til Brooklyn” sometimes it’s JayZ with “Empire State of Mind” and yesterday it was ole Blue Eyes himself with the best love song to the City that Never Sleeps, “New York, New York.”
Mirs came home with me and met my nephews, sister, and parents. They even broke their “no sleeping in the same bed because you’re not married rule” on the second night. It was purely circumstantial, my youngest nephew was allowed to sleep through his usual two-hour nap until around 11PM when he awoke wide-eyed, talkative with no hope of falling back to sleep. I was grumpy with our early morning flight weighing on my mind and between my child-like pouting and whining and the little one’s energy my mother said, “Just sleep in the same room” so we did. Sleep. No touching, I barely kissed her. I mean, it should be a thrill doing it in your parents…I can’t even finish that statement, it sort of gave me the willies.
There was nothing in my 31-year-old body that made me even remotely turned on about the prospect of doin’ the dirty in mom’s bed. Because it’s now my mom’s bed, because they’ve probably done it on there, because their room was only a whisper away, because I felt really uncomfortable. I dunno, maybe when I’m older it’ll be more of a thrill, or if I were older but at 31 the idea of getting down with my parents around wasn’t sexy, it was nerve-wracking so instead we snuggled a bit and fell asleep in the giant cloud that is my mattress that I spent big bucks on but wouldn’t fit in my car when I moved to NYC so now it’s my mom’s bed bed.