There was a time in my life when I tried never to turn down any invitations, because I didn't want to disappoint anybody. I was invited to a lot of mommy type events - Tupperware parties, Pampered Chef parties and the like.
Which is how I ended up at a lingerie and lotions party.
Go ahead. Laugh. Get it out of your system.
It wasn't overly raunchy. There were no sex toys. Still, there were things that I didn't normally shop for, and others that I had never shopped for in a group.
Plus, I found out w-a-a-a-a-a-y-y-y more than I ever wanted to know about total strangers.
One of my best girlfriends was the hostess. As is usual with home shopping parties, she was hoping for a certain number of attendees and a certain amount of sales so that she could earn free products. She and her sister were the only people that I knew in attendance. Have I mentioned that I'm uncomfortable meeting people?
Anyway.
Let me be upfront about the fact that I mean no disrespect to the company, its employees, its customers, its manufacturers or its founder's great aunt's childhood sitter's next door neighbor. I simply found myself to be totally out of my depth.
The company had some sweet sounding name like "Pleasant Dreams." The consultant was a lovely woman. (It was a bonus for me that she was large, and that the company made large sizes, so she therefore wouldn't be giving me those sidelong looks that say, "Oh, honey, give up on having any sex appeal.") The products had ridiculous, flowery, euphemistic names. There's a reason that I'm not a product namer. Nobody wants to buy an "ivory bra." They want "Arabian Nights, color: Filtered Moonbeams."
One of the products that the consultant demonstrated - well, not demonstrated, it wasn't that kind of party, more like explained - was a desensitizing cream called Man Delay. Yeah, I know; I cringed. Besides, I had two children and more than a half decade of marriage under my belt at that point, but my first thought was that I never, when I was in a romantic mood, considered novocaine. I could not quite fathom the need this product would fill.
The point, apparently, was that it was supposed to make your man take longer to finish. While I was still trying to wrap my brain around why it would be fun to numb my husband's pertinent parts, things got weirder.
One woman, whom I had never before met, had fairly detailed questions. "I bought some last time," (leaving me thinking, "You attend these parties often?") "My husband lost all sensation. The last thing he wanted to do was have sex, because he couldn't feel anything. We tried waiting, but he was numb all night."
Consultant: "How much did you use?"
Customer: "I don't know." (squirms) "Not, like, the whole jar or anything."
Consultant: "Did you get it all over both of your hands, and really work it it? Were your hands numb?"
HEY! WHOA! I do not want to know this about total strangers! I get pictures in my head when people speak, and I did not want a picture of this woman's hands, or anything else, working it in! But now, there it was, along with mental pictures of her husband that I didn't want to entertain! Good gravy, could I run to the bathroom, or would that look really bad when we're discussing sex acts? Tilt! Tilt!
Consultant: "You should only use the amount that will fit on your fingertip. Otherwise, it's too much, and it defeats the purpose."
I have always been a full disclosure, "let it all hang out" kind of person, on the theory that it was honest and authentic. I believe that this was the exact moment that I began to embrace the concept of Too Much Information. There are things that I don't want to know. There are things that you don't need to know. Privacy is good. It's not about shame, it's about intimacy. Dictionary definition: "Intimacy (noun) 1. a state of being intimate; 2. a close, familiar, and usually affectionate or loving personal relationship; 3. a close association with, or detailed knowledge or deep understanding of, a place, subject, or period of history." Boundaries, folks! There are very few people I want to have these discussions with, and you're not on the list. Decorum, please!
And, of course, because it was a party, there were party games.
One was called something ridiculous like, "Measure Your Romance Level." The consultant read off scenarios, and you gave yourself points depending on your answer. I found myself overthinking it. Asked about times that my husband and I had "walked hand in hand on a beach at sunset," I found myself wondering if the beach had to be an ocean beach, or if lakes counted. After all, we're hundreds of miles from the ocean. This was a clear sign that I was getting pulled into the madness.
Asked to award myself points for every time my husband and I had "been parking" in the past year, I spoke out loud. "I didn't even go parking when I was a teenager!" I mean, really, does anyone think that's what romance looks like?
Apparently.
The consultant stopped the quiz to give me earnest advice. Knowing that I had young children - I think my oldest children were about 4 and 5 at the time - she said, "Put the kids to bed. Then, take a 6-pack and go out to your driveway. You'll be surprised at how a change in scenery can really spice things up." She said this very sweetly and sincerely.
This is the moment that I ended up describing to a family member after the fact. She lived thousands of miles away, a single, childless life, so I looked to her for input on whether or not I was the only one who thought this was crazy.
"Parking is for kids who have nowhere else to go. I mean, in my house, which I own, I have a bedroom with a door that closes, windows with curtains on them, and a king sized bed. And I'm supposed to schlep out to my driveway? In my van, with its narrow seats, a gear shift, and curtainless windows all the way around? And even if I drank, what's with the 6-pack, for crying out loud? We really want intoxicated exhibitionists in the driveway, in full view of God and everybody, instead of in my own private, comfortable bedroom?"
My loved one was not worried about my driveway. She was still trying to wrap her head around the party itself, and why I had attended. It didn't help that, instead of just describing it as "a home shopping party," I had used the comparison, "like Tupperware." Now the outrage came down the line, clear as day.
"You're the one attending sexual Tupperware parties! What the hell is going on out there in suburbia?"
The phrase "sexual Tupperware party," which she used repeatedly (for years afterward) quite frankly also puts images in my head that are best left unthought and unshared.
I don't think that anyone was surprised when I got the very lowest "romance level" quiz score. I even got 50 bonus points, and my score was far and away the lowest.
The 50 bonus points were for my shoelaces. It was the early 90s, and fashion was still reflecting an early-in-her-career Madonna influence. We got bonus points for "having black lace anywhere on your body," and I had wide lace shoelaces in my black leather shoes.
I still got the consolation prize. And an annoying level of sympathy.
Just for the record, in case you're wondering, I've still never felt the need to "spice up" my relationship by retreating to my driveway.
Or numbing anything.
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