PLAISTOW, New Hampshire. If anybody can look on the bright side of things in this town of 7,609 near the Massachusetts border, it’s Amanda Byfurd, an avid collector of cloying ceramic figurines and a compulsive reader of romance novels. “When I heard I was going to be cooped up at home with Floyd for the foreseeable future, I resolved that we’d use that compulsory lock-down to get to know each other better,” she says with a naughty, suggestive wink.
Amanda was excited about the prospect of “quality time” with her husband because April is tax season, and he’s a busy certified public accountant in a two-man practice. “I usually don’t see him until May, so when the IRS pushed the filing deadline out I thought for once this month won’t be a total ‘write-off–pun intended!” she says with a laugh that is tinged with bitterness.
Amanda did her best to make the couple’s cozy bungalow a place where the seeds of marital bliss might fall on fertile soil. “I bought scented candles and put dimmers on the light switches to achieve a romantic effect–I even installed a mirror over our bed,” she says with a pout. “But I guess I can’t compete with the fatal allure of continuing professional education.”
You sexy thang.
Byfurd’s scorn is directed at her husband, who after a first few days of giddily getting used to working from home, retreated to his den where he has “virtually” attended a series of “webinars” on hot topics in accounting in order to fulfill mandatory continuing education requirements. “No knock on Amanda, she’s a great cook and I love her dearly,” her husband says, “but . . . well, seeing her around the house all day makes the four acceptable methods of accounting for depreciation of capital assets seem pretty exciting.”
The Byfurds’ experience is being replicated across the country as long-hoped-for gobs of free time are turning into a disappointment for those whose lives before the crisis were often marked by a hectic race to be alone together.
“There is a great deal of statistical truth in the old folk saying ‘Familiarity breeds contempt,’” says marital counselor Winston Severs. “When you don’t see your spouse scratching himself eight hours of the day at the office, you can forget what an incredible goober he is and develop misguided erotic impulses.”
“Sweetie–I bought this sexy top for our government-mandated ‘stay-cation.’”
The feeling is shared by Ted Bosch, who had hoped to master the “Mongolian Cartwheel” with his wife Tina during their time in confinement. “It’s not something you can get any good at if you only try it once a week on Saturday night,” he says of the difficult and somewhat risky sexual position that involves a standard office-size tape dispenser, a package of red licorice and a cocker spaniel. “But Tina just wants to stick to the same-old same-old.”
And what, this reporter asks, does that involve?
“Sex once a month, whether we need it or not.”