Puff-Pants

So it sounds like some sort of fancy lingerie, but alas, no.
Not all couplings are predictable. A good thing, sometimes. Other times, not so. Burton and Taylor - jury's still out on that one and the widow of the former might be a little bitterly twisted for it to be suggested that such a coupling was nigh on perfect.
Digression, an art belonging to those less frugal with time.
As I was saying, couplings aren't always predictable. MC Hammer had his own pair, but his wardrobe pairing have little to do with this titling duet.
I'm hoping you haven't expired by this dreary, verbal facade but my puff-pants do not refer to something you hang up in your closet or fold up in a drawer. This introduction is as laboured as my breathing, on my first appointment with my personal trainer, Janet.
Who'd have thought I'd have joined the gym where the young and lithe, pump and grind in such a way that it bears little resemblance to actual exercise. It's positively primeval.
Now a middle-aged, slightly rotund body is an altogether different vision to behold. This body is not watched nor envied, but it is a jolly good body with a good beating heart and good for sucky-in breaths (which are well needed in an exercise pit). Anyway, it's my body and this body has somehow found its way back to the gym. Not quite sure how, but here it is, presented in all its padded glory to the lovely Janet.
I'm not sure quite how she's going to do it, but I have faith in my well-toned, and friendly PT.
Rapport and gossip will get me to return.
A puffing I will go, a panting I will go ... hey ho, the merrio, off to the gym I go.
P.S. And a puff of good luck to Janet that one day I might just be able to fit into those pants which when recently chosen for attire resembled more a tourniquet than a garment.

Super

Wouldn't it be nifty to leap over tall buildings in a single bound? Wouldn't it be great to be invisible? Wouldn't it be even better if we could negotiate the very early stages of a relationship, in such a way that if we misread the map we don't get crushed on the rocks as the ship splinters before the champagne bottle even gets a chance to break? (Well, maybe a bit OTT!)

Well, it would, wouldn't it? What is also a little more interesting, if that's the right word, is how our relationship map reading skills don't seem to 'hone' with age. If anything, with the passing of time, the ship sets sail in murkier depths, more treacherous seas. I suspect Elizabeth Taylor's navigational relationship skills were hardly honed, in spite of her many trips down the aisle. But, of course, she takes her heart break and aisle-tripping tips to the grave.

My younger son when taking in a good friend has been married three times, said 'She's had three best days of her life!' His take, perhaps not shared by my friend in retrospective moments.

The reality of approaching superannuate-hood, is that we tend not to share the disasters, as let's face it, we've been around long enough, we should be getting it right. Well, we should, shouldn't we?

Heart-mashing, however it is done and at whatever age, still feels exactly the same. The feeling is a bit more familiar as we crumple into our dotage, but alas the feelings are no different for a 17 year-old than a 70 year-old. Funny old things hearts.

Not sure why I'm on this track, and it is rather circuitous, so it might be time to get off it before I get dizzy.