I probably addicted to Dictionary.com. If you can see any harm to that, please let me know. I’m actually pretty comfortable with it. I mean, yeah, it’s nerdy. But trust me; it beats some of the other potential addictions I keep zipped up tight. If repression begets chewed fingernails, too much peanut butter, and an inordinate number of visits to an academic web site, I’m doing just fine.

Which leads me to my title. This particular word combination, benign sexuality, flooded my head the other day after a flirtatious session of verbal banter with a male other than my husband. In the past, these encounters left me with a nice spring in my step. But this time, I felt deflated. Old. No, more than old … Benign. I’ve used this word in other contexts, so to confirm the use in this case, I looked it up on my new favorite web site. Benign: having little or no detrimental effect; harmless. And then, Sexuality: sexual character or potency. Yep, my friend Dictionary.com bluntly confirmed how I felt in an e-nutshell.

Upon further ridiculous analysis of this encounter and resulting deflation, I admitted to myself I’m more uncomfortable with aging than I realized. FINE … I’ll swallow that horse pill. But Gosh Darn it! There are certain generally flirtatious people out there who are just plain dangerous to those of us with fragile egos.

Thank gawd I live in Richmond. My in-laws live in Atlanta, often referred to as “Hotlanta.” During our last visit, I picked up a copy of Atlanta magazine and started paging through. I think I discovered the real meaning behind the nickname. It seemed every other advertisement was for a very specific plastic surgery, and we’re not talking nose jobs. I just have to say … if all those surgeons are enjoying a busy practice, and thousands of Hotlanta’s vaginas have been youthfully rejuvenated … there’s a good chance Atlanta is burning to the ground for the second time. Here in Richmond, the only public place we say the word vagina out loud is in the doctor’s office, and even then, you’d better be at your Ob/Gyn. Most of the time that decorum feels limiting, but in this case, Halleluiah! Because if pressure to perfect was in my face so blatantly, I’m afraid I’d have a plastic surgeon on speed dial. My children would grow up to tell stories to their shocked therapists about their mother spending all their college funds in order to surgically hike her buttocks up to the height of her hair extensions.

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