I think my parents are having sex again.



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For context, my parents have been divorced since 1998 or so. A life of pleasantly uninterrupted teen angst continued from that point forward; my parents’ divorce was a solid catch-all explanation for why everything in my life was so messed up. Didn’t have a car? Divorced parents. Got a liberal arts degree? Divorced parents. Unemployed? Divorced parents. It all made so much sense, this way to organize my universe. And if I wasn’t, really, all that upset, it got my therapists on my side. 

That all changed in the winter of 2013. One dark and snowy night, my mother heard a scratching at the front door of her suburban cottage. She threw open the door to see a shadowy figure on the front step: my father, recently evicted by his second bride. According to both sources, he’s been spending the past two years as a blanketed hump on the sofa. But as always, the truth will out. Last summer, I visited in order to take a closer look at the situation. The sleeping-on-the-couch pretense lasted exactly one night. By the second night Father Dearest had decamped to my mother’s air-conditioned chambers.

I don’t like to think about what they might be doing in there. 

You may think I’m a mean-spirited prude who can’t stand the idea of two elderly, broken souls finding happiness with one another. You’re only half right. If these two insist on representing Cialis culture, at least have the decency to sleep with someone new. Check eHarmony, or adultfriendfinder, or OKCupid. Whatever! Just don’t go around corrupting my childhood.