I’m reading Sex and the Serial Killer by Jennifer Skully, and really enjoying it. And finally the conflicted couple has hit the sheets, and the heroines says:
“I started my pills on Sunday. They should work right away.”
So, after being unceremoniously jerked out of this rather steamy love scene, I ponder contraceptives.
I’m 32. I’ve been married eleven years in May…oh crap–twelve years in May–and being face to monitor with my computer every day is reminder enough that technology of every ilk is marching by me faster than ants to a dropped chunk of Krispy Kreme doughnut. I’m what…about 16 years out of health class?
It’s late, and I’m not about to go back through the book and figure out how many days have passed since Sunday, but guessing from the wording, I’d say less than a week. Birth control pills didn’t kick in that fast back when I was young. (You know, waaaaaay back when? The tall child asked me if they had video games when I was a kid. Oh PulEEZE! I had an Atari, thank you very much.)
So, anyway… Either my opinion of this heroine just tanked, or I need to arrange a sit-in at the local high school’s health class if I’m going to write contemporary, I guess.
Or not. Condoms can be an out-of-touch girl’s best friend, right?