I was given a challenge last night.  And I don’t pass up challenges.  It’s not a trait I necessarily consider a strength, because, really, there are some pretty asanine things that follow:  “I bet you can’t (or won’t)…”  But the words stir up my competitive juices, and I soon find myself calling up an ex-boyfriend from ten years past, attempting to create a new nighttime fashion trend which revolves around string bikini tops, making out with a 20-something man-child, or…creating a blog entry out of nothing.  That would be my challenge tonight.  The Seinfeld blog.

Nikki (on phone with Susan): “What should I write my blog about tonight?  I’m drawing a blank.”

Susan: “Hmmm.  That’s a toughie.  And I’m afraid I’ll be of no help.  I can only think of the laundry I need to fold.”

Nikki: (joking) “Maybe I should write one about doing laundry.”

Susan: “I bet you can’t.”

Nikki: (oh, shit…here we go) “Watch me.”

So, here we are.  On the precipice of a blog entry about one of our most mundane tasks.  And I’m wondering how many of you are still with me, and how many have flipped back over to Perez Hilton or the Bachelorette recaps…or maybe even resumed work.  If your loyalty has guilted you into sticking this one out, hold onto your color safe guard detergent…this is gonna go in a direction you never imagined.

When this challenge guantlet was thrown down, it took mere seconds for me to hone in on a story angle.  And that angle is:  Sometimes I’m really glad I’m still single.  Especially when it comes to laundry.  Is it because I don’t want to take on the added piles of dirty clothes or pick sweaty socks out of smelly tennis shoes?  All valid reasons, but, no, they’re not my chief concerns.  The truth is, when I finally shack up with my meant-to-be, there are things I’d like to keep to myself.  Like the fact that the little cloth strip inside a girl’s undies can tell a story.  And it’s not always a pristine one.  Now, I’m not talking about the obvious 5-7 days of hell each month…a girl prepares well for that time…we’re on high alert and armed with a purse or cabinet-full of plugs and pantyliners.  Should a mishap occur, situations are usually rectified in moments and evidence is all but erased before it reaches the laundry bin.  No, I’m talking about mid-month…those days when pregnancy (if you’re not careful) is probable, and black panties are not your friend.  I don’t want my meant-to-be to see that.  I’d like to retain a little mystery.  So sue me.

 ”I wouldn’t worry about that, Nikki,” you’re thinking.  “What man is going to offer to do the laundry?”

Good point.  But remember…I am 30-something.  My future lover-boy will likely be the same or older.  He will have lived on his own for awhile.  (I’ve gone down the path of the recently broken up…I won’t be doing it again…trust me.  A little advice, you shouldn’t do it either.)  So, my not-fresh-from-another-relationship soulmate will be self-sufficient.  He will know how to do his own laundry.  And he will be so smitten, he will offer to do mine.  And I will either decline his kind offer, or secretly wash the “panty” load on my own.  He’s a guy.  He probably won’t notice.  And the sweet, hot (oh, I didn’t mention he’s smokin’ hot?), distinguished, funny, well-read man will go on believing that my undies are all made of silk, are never tarnished with natural female, well, you know, and go into the washing machine just as lovely as when they come out.

“Nikki, you’re being ridiculous.”

No.  No.  I’m not.  Just as I don’t want him pointing a video camera at my hoo-ha when a baby’s head is crowning, I don’t want him to know the realities of ovulation and the havoc it wreaks on my skivvies.  I will also not be proudly tooting or burping in his presence (unless completely unavoidable).  Why?  Because if he’s farting the day away in his Laz-e-Boy, I probably won’t be dreaming of a romantic roll in the hay.  My guess is, if I’m doing the same, neither will he.  And I enjoy rolling in the hay.

A little old-fashioned?  Maybe.  But some hand-me-downs from the past aren’t so bad, are they?  Mix them in with your strong-willed, independent, fabulous self, and you’ve got one bad-ass gal with a man who occasionally hoists her up on a pedestal.  And how can that be wrong?

I went to bed last night thinking about this blog and where it would go.  And, for some reason, I had a long night of dreams about John Slattery.  Do you know who that is?  Actor.  Salt and pepper hair (well, mainly salt now). Plays “Roger Sterling” on that AMC show Mad Men about the advertising industry in the early 60’s (if you haven’t seen it, you’ve got to check it out).  And I think he also played Eva Longoria’s congressman or senator husband on Desperate Housewives (don’t really watch that one).  Anyway, he must signify something to me.  Maybe distinguished, mysterious…someone I’d clearly like to keep my panty secrets from.  When I lived in NYC, I saw him several times at the NYSC (New York Sports Club) I worked out at in the West Village.  On one occasion, we were even treadmill neighbors.  But I didn’t say a word.  Because I’m brave like that.  And, besides, it’s an unspoken rule in NYC…you just don’t bug ‘em.  Also, this was 5-6 years ago, I wasn’t exactly sure who he was…just knew I’d seen him before.  And that I wanted to take him to my tiny apartment…maybe for some tea (or a little bit of me).

I think where this whole twisting, turning (and a bit too revealing) blog has taken me, is to a realization.  I want a man.  Not a boy.  I want distinguished and confident…funny and smart.  Not immature and unsure…wishy washy and dependent.  I want someone that I feel comfortable with and proud of…someone that, ten years from now, I still want to impress.  And if that means taking on the full role of laundry to hide a few female secrets, then so be it.  I’ll reap the benefits in the sack.

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