I am pretty sure that the brainiacs who designed all those Cialis ads on TV must hate all couples over the age of 50 and are trying to make sure they will never, ever want to have sex again. Anyway, that’s the only explanation I can think of for their miserable ads that make me want to scream and heave large objects at our TV set every time they come on.
You know what I’m talking about. Here I am, innocently watching some designated old-people show like the evening news or Sixty Minutes that has an audience with a median age of 103. My defenses are low, since I’m mired in existential gloom about endless wars, global warming, Tea Party troglodytes, the very sight of Newt Gingrich and his platinum haired, born again hussy, the floods, the fires, the drought, the gout, the pain.
(Why watch the evening news if it’s so depressing? someone like, say, my husband will ask. Because, I say, I do not shirk from my duty. I want to be well-informed about how bad everything is.)
Wait a minute! Where was I? Oh, yes, my defenses were down, what with all that trauma playing out in HD, so I’m nailed to the couch when I hear that awful, goupy music that’s the aural equivalent of drowning in a vat of honey. Oh, no, not Cialis!
Oh, yes, yes, Cialis. An attractive couple with a little gray around their temples, a little subtle wrinkling close to their eyes, is vibrantly raking leaves together. Or taking out the trash together. And, then … she touches him or he touches her and their eyes meet (the way one’s eyes always meet when one is taking out the garbage or when one is cross-eyed) and it’s time for their special moment. The music swells and so does something else, since he has been popping Cialis and he is ready any time, but particularly when he is taking out the trash.
By this time, I am so depressed I have to go to the freezer and pull out a pint of dulce de leche so I can contemplate the utter humiliation of the Baby Boomer generation, which practically invented sex and did it in the road and in the car and at Woodstock, aided and abetted by loud rock music and handfuls of illegal drugs. But now the drugs are prescription and the music is sappy and erotic as a mouthwash jingle and the backdrop is household chores (doing laundry, in one memorably lascivious episode).
I watch the news, I read the increasing number of obits for my generation, I hear about our artificial hips, our tooth implants, our arthritis, our rickety bones, our Social Security payments, our dwindling energy. I watch, I listen, I take it all in. I know we’re going down, but is our formerly overheated and oversexed generation now reduced to being encouraged to hump over some clean laundry while drippy music tinkles in the background like a leaky bladder?
The news won’t make me turn off the TV; the Baby Boomer sex commercials will.
(Copyright 2011 by Ruth Pennebaker)
Read one of my favorite posts about the vulva rock