On Hotting Oneself Up

I am all about the beauty sleep.

Being 40 and taken for younger all my adult life has more to do with
sleep than my cheekbones. Fo Sho Yo. Give me the juicy 9 hours
and 3 dreams a night and I will leave my man high and juicily dry.

Give me less: haggard. Sad. Spiritually disemboweled.

My man drew me a bath last night, and I stepped onto the page
and right through to the hot, hot water with a beer and a cigarette
and Jaimie Cat Callan's "French Women Don't Sleep Alone,"
which is sweet, if a report of French city women, and got me thinking about lingerie.

So to complete the experience I perfumed and smoothed myself
and then hotted myself up with a slip, matching red lingerie
and a skirt and sweater before sliding into the kitchen.

Let this be understood: I spend most of my time in dust filled
clothing while sanding, tiling, painting and generally filling
my life, and hair and skin, with dirt.

I do not spend my time being obviously hot.

It felt good.

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