I dipped my toe into the raspberry-scented water and the temperature was just right. I submerged myself into the pink, fizzing water and the remnants of the bath bomb dissolved around me. The water was silky smooth, warm and relaxing. Escapism was mine.
My cell dinged and I almost didn’t answer. But my husband, Ron was traveling for work. I dried my hands and reached for my phone to find a message from him.
“What ‘cha doing?” He texted.
Trying to spice up our time apart, I snapped a picture of my legs stretched out before me, wrote “Playtime” and hit send before I realized I hadn’t replied to my husband’s last text, but rather one from my son, Kyle.
It felt like the blood in my veins turned cold. I jolted from the water with my heart pounding. “No! No, no, no, no.” I tried to delete the message but the damage was done. I quickly text my son, Kyle, “Sorry! That was meant for Ron.”
But I knew. It was simply a matter of time. I closed my eyes and waited. Within seconds my cell chimed with a text from my son.
“GROSSS!!!!” followed by “Mom, what the hell? I can never un-see that.”
By this time, I was laughing so hard I couldn’t catch my breathe. I’m not sure what bothered my 20-year-old more, the picture of my legs, which I completely understood – it’s not my best feature. Or the message. No kid likes to think of their parent having playtime – any time.
“I was just being playful,” I said when Kyle came home for his little brother’s 11th birthday. “You know, it was just a joke.” But no matter how I tried to spin it, my son wasn’t falling for my hype.
“Mom, it’s called sexting and it’s gross.”
I glanced at Ron, who ducked into the kitchen and out of the conversation.
“I wasn’t sexting,” I said. “I was just…”
Kyle waited, but I had no answer.
“Didn’t you do this before?” He stood with his hands on his hips.
I cringed. “Well, there was that time I text that I was horny, but instead of sending it to Ron, I sent it to Ruth.”
Kyle slowly shook his head. “Mom, seriously. That’s gross.”
“I wasn’t wearing my glasses and Ruth and Ron both begin with R.”
All I heard was Ron’s deep laughter from the kitchen, which wasn’t helping. Whenever Ron travels, we text more often. However, ever since I accidently texted my dearest friend at eleven at night instead of my husband, I have never text anything that amorous again. My son, though, would argue that “Playtime” would disprove that claim.
So now when I text Ron I try to leave a little to the imagination – but only his imagination. However, since I’ve texted the wrong person twice, it’s gone beyond awkward to a major text faux pas. In my attempt to add sizzle to my marriage, I ended up fizzling and having an embarrassing conversation with my son.
Instead of double-checking the details before sending my texts, I need to triple-check them. Or not send them at all. But who am I kidding? It’s fun to flirt with my husband. And as long as I keep them G-rated, then every contact in my phone is safe. Or so I hope.