A new girl has joined the small company I work for. She's twenty-three with a tight little body, long silky blond hair, a degree and a loser husband. I'm a mother figure being thirty years older and not as shiny or tight so she doesn't feel threatened by me. I haven't forgotten how to giggle and I still remember what it was like to love doing my wife duties simply because I loved being a wife but the more she confides in me the more I want to say, "Honey, this man is using you to cook, clean, take care of his kids, bring home the bigger check, purr in his bed and you're lapping it up like a cute little kitten, what is wrong with you?" Then I stop myself and I think, who am I to tell this girl that she should be bossy and bitter instead of hopeful and naive? Isn't that what youth is all about, hope? I see life in a rear view mirror. She sees a fresh landscape and every flower she plants is fresh and beautiful. Every little thing he does for her "is so romantic." He may work less hours than her, leave the house a mess and not lift a finger to help, but when he opens the door like a gentleman and gives her a wink when she has done a good job, she just knows she loves him so much.

Yeah, I like being around this girl, I don't want to tell her the end of the story, I'd rather listen to her telling me the beginning.


  1. When you're living in the second half of the novel, as you and I are, the first half usually does sound delicious. But I would not want to climb those stairs again; there were plenty of tacks in them.

    Great post.

  2. Ha, Ha, Ricky, thanks for reminding me, sometimes I miss the surge of youth.