Doin' This And That

Did you hear the story on NPR the other morning about men and women and multi-tasking? No? Well, then, stop whatever you are doing so you can focus on this.

Evidently, according to the research, when women multi-task we feel put-upon and angry. Whereas, when men multi-task they feel happy. It has to do with....well, I don't really know what it has to do with because I was listening to the story in the car on my way to work and I was also thinking about where I might have left my phone. Also, I was wondering what ever happened to Surya Bonaly and I had to remind myself to get a flu shot that afternoon. Oh, and my underpants were too tight, so there was that, too. A lot on my mind for a nine-minute drive to work.

According to the story, women multi-task about ten times more often than men, and when we do, it almost always involves unexciting, even unpleasant, chores. You know, like, cleaning out the kitty litter box while stirring the peanut butter while determining if the booger on your shirt is repulsive enough to warrant actually changing your clothes before you go into public. And then, while changing your shirt, you remember that you have a dissertation due for your Ph.D in, I don't know, structural engineering. And also, you have to remember to do your daily 25 Kegels. You know, so you can open that fucking jar of peanut butter without the surprise of exertion incontinence all over the kitchen floor.

Whereas to a man, multi-tasking means watching football on TV while masturbating.

The older I get, the less I am able to multi-task. So MORE magazine helpfully told me to do my Kegels each time I stop at a red light. I would try that, but my time is pretty tightly scheduled during red lights, what with spilling coffee down my blouse, hiding my phone from the cops and looking in my rear view mirror to try out smiles that don't make my recessed eyes completely disappear and me look like a low-thyroid Sharpei puppy.

Frankly, it's hard enough to remember to do Kegels even as a single task unto itself. I mean, a person can remember to, say, brush their teeth because when your teeth get funky, you can see it. And feel it. And smell it. But when your pelvic floor gets funky, the only time you are aware of it is when someone else smells it. And then, I have to say, it's probably too late. I know my pelvic floor is getting funky when a person tells me a hilarious joke about a bear and a hunter and, well, I can insist that I just spilled lemonade on my crotch while laughing hysterically, but I'm not fooling anyone. Although, technically, it was lemonade. At least, when it was going in.

I am, however, multi-tasking right now, as a matter of fact. I am writing this post while ignoring that Robin is waiting for me in bed.

Which is probably for the best. I haven't been doing my Kegels and I just had a big glass of lemonade.