Growing Old Uncomfortably
Disgracefully Gracefully Comfortably Uncomfortably
You wake up one day and wonder where the best years of your life have gone. Looking over to your left the answer is lying there beside you; mouth wide open with breath that smells like he swallowed a turd in the night. Snoring in rhythm to the depth of your dissatisfaction you realise you are growing comfortably, too bloody comfortably, old together.
I’m afraid to tell you, you don’t have much in the way of options at this point. Last time I checked bumping off your partner, a crime passionnel, is only forgivable in one country, and even then to qualify you need to be a woman of still fertile status; another kick in your non-ovulating ovaries for you. You can only but hope and pray he kicks the bucket of natural causes sometime soon. The hope that he runs off with his secretary has now become a distant fantasy as he retired
too bloody long ago.
This IS the rest of what you have left of your life.
At least you can be grateful he’s stopped pestering you for sex. He lost the will in that department after waiting for the little blue pills to kick in; only to find himself diving into saggy rolls of flesh rippling like low tide on a windy day, and then nearly suffocating under the weight of your boobs after lifting them to get to your foo foo!
Getting drunk is no longer an option. You’ll be up all night peeing.
So there, I’m afraid, you are. Stuck with your
fat bastard soulmate husband, the man of your nightmares. If you’re lucky it won’t be long until he is too infirm to toil his precious, prize-winning, land. You could then employ a gardener and relive Lady Chatterley’s lover. He might even be handy with a hammer and a shovel.
Content = bored. There’s no way out now. You’ve made your bed and have to lie in it, with him.
Lisa Ives for Pf Magazine