mid-life crisis

My friends and I sometimes share our number with one another.  I’m not talking lbs., our Purity Test scores, or the number of things we wanted to accomplish by 30 years old.  I’m talking sexual partners.  Sometimes she’ll recruit an ex for the job to keep her numbers down.  She’d sooner sleep with habit than sleep with new.  Sex seems not to count as much if it’s with someone we’ve already spent days in bed with.  What’s one more night?  I don’t care about my numbers, and I certainly wouldn’t care about his.  I have crawled into bed with men I’ve dated from the past, thinking it was safe without regard to how he felt about it.  It was never done under false pretense, and I’m certain those MIDs (men I dated) wouldn’t trade the moments, but it still seems wrong. 

I’ve had a number of ex’s, and as such, going forward, instead of referring to them all by number (wait, which one was #12 again?), all of my ex’s will be forever referred to as a MID (man I dated).  Mostly because so many of these MIDs are still my friends, and I’m tired of answering their emails, "Wait, is that post about me?  I thought you liked that gift!"  I’m no Carly Simon, but now is not the time for the pain that comes with the Beatty’s thinking they’re the Taylor’s.