So it's 2:44 in the afternoon on a Sunday. I'm being as intimate with my wife as wide awake kids will allow: we are both surfing the web at the kitchen table while listening to NFL pregame in the background. This is the 21 equivalent of reading poetry under a willow tree. Suddenly, breaking the mood, comes the resonant tone of a commercial announcer axing if I am troubled by "erectile dysfunction".
No, I do not dismiss the needs of the many out there who could use some help getting over a physical or emotional hump, so to speak. I do however, regret that my kids will grow up more comfortable talking about penile performance than prophylactic protection. It's just the hypocrisy that big pharmaceutical companies can talk about manly matters over my dinner, but God (apparently) forbid educators offer advice to tweenagers on how to avoid pregnancy, syphilis and nasty reputations. Why are there no no grumpy old men standing outside the offices of urologists with humongous pictures of flaccid penis', protesting this unnatural endowment?
Perhaps I would be in a more generous mood if Merck or Johnson & Johnson (wouldn't that be appropriate...) would come on TV with a pill that gave me and the ReInvented Wife what our sex life really needed. A pill that made the kids go away for three hours at a time. One can hope.
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