Dear C,

At first, I thought you were writing to me about an entirely different subject matter, but I am glad to hear that hubby at least pays attention long enough to meet your needs during the act itself. My problem is the opposite. I find it increasingly hard, if not impossible, to pay any kind of attention to the oldballandchain, sexual or otherwise. Between yoga, tennis, Pilates, drinks at the Club and, oh, of course, children, I barely have time to shower, let alone engage in any kind of physical activity that doesn't have its ultimate goal the preservation of my rapidly aging body. And what, precisely is all this frenetic effort to slow down the treadmill of time for, you might ask, if not to be able to present a respectible physical specimen to one's spouse between the marital sheets? As if! In fact, as any member of the female sex knows, women exercise in order to compete with their female peers, not to attract their husband's attention. Indeed, is there a married woman alive who wouldn't frankly prefer a relaxing massage to the prospect of a physical mawling from her mate?

As for your quaint notion of compiling a honey-do list that must be completed prior to the granting of sexual favors, it's a lovely idea, but one that quickly founders on the rocks of male procrastination (at least in my experience). Unless the consequences of non-compliance are ruthlessly and consistently enforced, such agreements rapidly degenerate into pissing matches about who failed to call the plumber, and why the aggrieved party sooner or later finds herself having to do everything around here. It's not exactly conducive to marital harmony or getting things fixed around the house, even if it does lead to some great hate sex.

P.

Dear C,

For a moment there, I thought you were referring to your eldest daughter's increasingly obvious stage of development, but I see now that capitalism has come up with yet one more way for a woman to feel like she should be able to mimic her own daughter's body well into her dotage. As for saving your youngest cherub from seeing the unavoidable effects of gravity on the body in its natural state, I only wish my own mother had been so considerate. Were you not raised in the bra-burning seventies too, dear C? At the time, from what I recall, said appendages did not sag so much as announce their presence in an alarmingly forthright manner, like antennas that demanded to be twiddled. Indeed, it's only in the last ten years or so that my mother has felt the need to cover up; a late blessing for which I will eternally be grateful. Who knows, maybe she'll agree to stop going topless on the beach one day soon too?

As for myself, I have of course overcompensated for this childhood trauma by insisting on wearing corsets of industrial proportions in bed, bath and beyond. In addition to covering up the offending body parts at all times, I'm hoping these contraptions will have the added benefit of arresting or at least slowing down the inevitable slippage that comes with time. I'm hoping the customized chin bra I just purchased will achieve the same effect on my face. Oh, and in case you are wondering, I was expecting the oldballandchain to object to having to work his way under, over or around so many extra layers, but in practice he seems quite content not to go near me at all, as soon as I put them on.

Hopefully, the twins will thank me for conducting myself in a manner befitting a serious matron, and not the carefree, Joy of Sex addled hippy my mother once modeled herself on, too.

P.