Not Florence Nightingale

I make a terrible caretaker. SwingBot came down with something on Monday morning and only got worse on Tuesday. And I had a play date.

I have been wanting company while taking the dogs for walks lately, so scheduled for BG to meet and join me in the morning for the walk. Since SwingBot was sick, we canceled our regularly scheduled play date for Tuesday night. Still, there is no harm in hanging out and walking dogs at a public park. We walked and talked, then gathered the dogs into my car, made a sickie-supply grocery run, and grabbed some take-out lunch on the way home.

BG ate while I checked on SwingBot, who was doing poorly. I got SwingBot a banana and drink and, while making him soup, ate my lunch. After feeding SwingBot and checking on whether he needed anything else, I settled on the couch with BG, resting my legs across his lap. I soon got horny and made moves on him. Before going too far, I checked in with SwingBot, both on how he was doing and whether he was okay with this activity. Then I enjoyed BG’s company in a very intimate fashion.

I am not going to lie. I enjoyed myself. Of course I did; that was the point. Still, part of me feels badly, pursuing sex while my husband suffers a fierce cold. Discovering that evening that he had a temperature of 102.5 degrees F only made me feel guiltier.

The self-indulgent part of me wants to argue with the guilty-feeling part of me, that I checked on him regularly and that there was nothing I could do to help him that I was not already doing. The guilty-feeling part counters that pursuing such fun when he is in no condition to join, particularly when I just had such a fantastic Christmas, is just not fair.