Dating as you have to deal with the spread of middleage is daunting. Some might venture to say terrifying. In fact, so terrifying that I've decided to sit it out this later-age dance and if the frog hops onto my dance card then, and only then, I'll decide whether or not to leap. I suspect my feet will remain dry and firmly on the ground, but who knows, I'll keep a bit of lippy in my purse just in case.
As you wrestle with your girth, and the life lines, children shine a completely different light onto your situation.
Sometime ago, I dated a gentleman... or at least a bloke... with whom I had little in common. He was a pleasant sort of chap and it was nice having someone to pop around for a cuppa and a chat. The relationship rocked along for a few months and at the conclusion ('the dumping') my youngest son noted with cynicism, 'He's gone back to Planet Idiot, eh mummy?' From the mouths of babes, the big fat truths.
Unfortuantely, the most magificient feature of my at-the-time chap was his propensity for the most astounding... well... farts. They were rounded and full and trumpeted as you can only imagine the most farty of farts to sound like. Their comedic value knew no boundaries with my two sons. No embarassment ever accompanied the aromatic trumpets, nor apologies. To be fair, in the farting arena, they were the grand champions. The Mike Tyson of flatulence.
We bumped into him sometime after the last aromatic intrusion into our lives and I noticed, for the first time, the very roundness of his bottom, and suddenly it all made perfect sense with regard to the cachophonous nature of his emissions. Physics and biology, quite fascinating.
I hope my bottom wasn't eyed up and compared to a pachyderm. Oh sod it, what if it was?
