Fantasies die. You get old and realize all those plans for group sex and cross-country road trips fade into the harsh realities of mortgages and elastic waist bands. Bodies get softer and our lovers become mothers who trade in silky negligees for a durable rag that can soak up the milky vomit of babies.
I was watching The Brady Bunch yesterday with James (he seems to enjoy it) and I realized that none of the kids ever talked about their real mother/father. We're told in the opening song that Mike had three boys of his own when he met Carol who had three lovely ladies with hair of gold, etc. So what happened to Mike Brady's baby momma? Maybe she died in a fiery car accident on her way home from having sex with Mike's boss down at the architectural firm. The affair not discovered until after the accident, because she hadn't yet disposed of the condom which was found in the car next to her lifeless body.
And Carol's former husband, the astronaut, was caught diddling some young, scientist down at the space camp when Carol decided to surprise him with fresh baked muffins down at the office. When she walked into her husbands office, there he was doing things with the pretty scientist that Carol would have never allowed him to do. And it was Carol's subsequent nervous breakdown that led to the decision to have a live-in maid in her new home. The doctors recommended it.
All you have to do is look deep into the eyes of Mr. Brady as he lays there reading a book in bed, sporting those starchy pajamas, doing his damnedest to appease Mrs. Brady with inane small talk, and you'll see the pain set deep into his soul.
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