I would like to say this to my husband but I suspect it needs more refining

Stop looking at my boobs.  Seriously.  I’m not kidding.

No, you are not getting sex.  I apologize for that, because I know it’s been a while, but you are looking at probably another six months minimum before you get laid again.  I’m sorry, but thems the facts.  I suggest you get used to it.

Don’t worry.  It’s not because I no longer think that you are the sexiest guy around.  You clearly are sexier than any other guy out there, with the possible exception of David Boreanaz and no I don’t know what my obsession is with him.  Swarthy isn’t usually my type, but between the sexy vampire thing and the funny FBI agent thing thing I’m hooked.  Don’t look at me like that.  You have Kate Winslet.

Where was I?  Oh, right.   Your sexless existence.

See, this is definitely one of those cases where it is clearly not you, it’s me.  I don’t think I could feel less sexy these days if I were a turnip.  A rotting turnip.  A rotting turnip that is sitting on top of a overflowing compost heap.  You getting the picture or should I keep going?

Sometimes I think about sex.  I really do.  Then I realize that I’ve got an abdomen so distended that I can’t put shoes on without grunting.  I’ve got veins popping out every where and weird splotches all over my legs.  Those boobs you like so much, while ample, seem to be developing stretch marks.  And do you know what I saw when I took off my boots the other day?  Do you?  Swollen grandma ankles.  Who wants to have sex with someone with grandma ankles?  And all this repulsiveness just kills the mood for me.

So, I’m sorry.  My body issues are taking priority right now and you are just going to have to accept that as part of the deal. 

Now, once more.  Quit looking at my boobs.  No, seriously.