So I think I have to get glasses. I haven’t been to the Doctor yet, but I can’t read what I am typing so my guess is ..glasses. However, this is not going to be a morose rant about being 40 something, everything going to hell in a hand basket, and needing glasses. In fact I am looking forward to it. Why, you may be asking yourself, when every time you need your glasses they are in the other room, under your butt, or right on top of your head where you left them, though you sure as hell can’t find them because you can’t remember anything either.
No no not I. I do not rue the spectacle of a woman looking for her spectacles, for this fate will not befall me. If my plan comes to fruition, it will be Wayne who will always knows the location of my goggles. And my scheme shall be executed hence.
Wayne being a man of greater than average intelligence has always been attracted to brains over boobs, booty, and ba da boom. The three B’s will easily attract his attention; it can be retrieved with a knuckle to the deltoid, but they won’t keep it for long. No longer than it takes anyway… But seriously folks, I am more threatened by Condi Rice than Paris Hilton.
Marina the sexy philologist of Hot for Words does give me pause, but I like her website too so I can’t really complain. In fact, from her I shall glean some of my ploy to make Wayne remember where my glasses are. Clever, am I not?
Often when exploring the origin of words and how it led to their modern usage, Marina employees glasses as a prop. She uses them to look scholarly, which she most defiantly is, but her combination of beauty and brains often confuses and frightens some men who tuned in just for the 3 B’s.
I tried to pull off the glasses thing in college but it just led to bad poetry.
However, in deference to Wayne's propensity for brainy chicks, I'll use my glasses to evoke the persona of a naughty librarian with a dossier of dirty tricks that is so thick she needs the Dewey Decimal system to catalog them. I will peruse "literature" that is so risque I'll have to hide it in a cookbook. And then I am going to show Wayne what I read. I will act out every tawdry little romance novel fantasy I can. I don’t care if it involves throbbing stallions, pirates or butter. My glasses will be like lingerie…the fun stuff starts when they come off. Like Pavlov ringing a bell, every time I take off my bifocals, shake my head from side to side, as if I had cascading waves of flaming auburn locks that reached the delicate curve in small of my back, Wayne will start to drool.
My exotic plot shall not be without rewards for my mate and his cognitive powers of recall. Wayne knowing where I left my glasses will be like foreplay for the over 40.