Donald Trump Reignited My Sex Life

<div><img src="https://img.huffingtonpost.com/asset/68d2f28e180000c1565cff68.png?cache=VcbRCnfrFb&ops=crop_0_706_750_438%2Cscalefit_630_noupscale" alt="The author and her husband before their wedding ceremony at the Los Angeles Central Library in 2009. Neither had had sex yet." data-caption="The author and her husband before their wedding ceremony at the Los Angeles Central Library in 2009. Neither had had sex yet." data-credit-link-back="" data-credit="Courtesy of J. Y. Kitani" />The author and her husband before their wedding ceremony at the Los Angeles Central Library in 2009. Neither had had sex yet.</div><div class="content-list-component text"><p>For most of my adult life, I ended my evenings curled up in pyjamas with my favourite men: Stephen Colbert, Seth Meyers, the Jo(h)ns (Oliver and Stewart) and Trevor Noah.</p><p>They were witty, indignant and knew just how to stroke my outrage while making me laugh. They gave my day closure – a safe feeling that someone principled was paying attention to what was going on in our country.</p><p>Meanwhile, my actual husband was usually just one room over, watching his own shows on his own device. Our decompression happened in parallel worlds after long days of work and high-stakes negotiations with our children over exactly how many more minutes of screen time they could have.</p><p>We then fell asleep in separate states of overstimulated exhaustion, each lit by the blue glow of our respective screens.</p><p>I was a news junkie. I read headlines while brushing my teeth. Listened to podcasts while driving our kids to piano lessons. Spent my time poring over The New York Times, The Economist, The Washington Post, the Los Angeles Times and NPR instead of grading student projects or answering work emails. It wasn’t just procrastination; it was pleasure. Even when the content was bleak,