A disorderly mid-life fix

Mr. Fantastic, Mr. Guitar, Samson, and Mr. Incredible.
As if I didn’t already have enough men in my male-order catalogue, Mr. Disorder, Mr. Fit, and Mr. Mid-life are emerging aliases for the guy with the goods in my neck of the woods.
The three new handles for my super-hero husband joined the family circus during his recent two-week break from work.
I wasn’t expecting Pete home until sunrise had squeezed through the blinds in the bedroom, and so was still buried in my full-body pajamas, thermal socks with legs unshaven, and a head of hair that looked like the wrath of God when I was jolted from a deep sleep by barking dogs.
I grabbed the golf club I keep by my side of the bed and was making a beeline towards the calamity when the door opened and Mr. Disorder walked in—much to my “deer in the headlights” expression of surprise.
Oddly, he didn’t immediately approach the warm-bodied female species for an initial hug and regular two-week inspection.
While my woolly looks might have seemed the logical appetite suppressant, our history together would suggest no amount of body armour can deter our usual love agenda.
But instead, his jaw dropped open and he blurted out, “Are you sleeping with a duck?”
It was 1 a.m. and I had been having the one good night in six in the sleep department—until Mr. Disorder blew in and wiped out the great dream I’d been having about being rescued by Bruce Willis—and then ruffled my feathers with a ridiculous notion of ducks in my boudoir.
What on any other night would have been his yellow brick road to a happy place was zapped in a instant to a far-off planet.
“Are you sleeping with a duck?” he repeated, smiling and moving towards the female species, whose demeanor at 1:01 a.m. was headed straight for a link up with Medusa.
I flat-stared him cold, turned around, and headed back to the bedroom and my side of the bed, which when I got there felt curiously prickly. As it turned out, Pete wasn’t so far from wrong.
There were plumes everywhere that must have escaped from a hole in my duck down pillow during the dramatic rescue scene of my dreams.
And by 1: 30 a.m., an initial calming of the female species and the snakes in her hair by Mr. Fantastic was realized after somebody found a new use for said feathers.
By mid-morning, all was right with our world and life got back to near normal as we sipped hot black coffee and watched music videos—until a close-up shot of some guy with long hair beating on a set of flashy drums brought forth the aliases of Mr. Mid-life and Mr. Fit.
Mr. Mid-life—downhearted by the fact he had waited years too long to further his music hobby—kissed his ducky little wife and headed straight for his favourite downtown music shop, promising her he wouldn’t come home with another electric guitar or over-sized amp.
Two weeks ago, Pete had made the big leap into a healthier lifestyle, got a prescription for the nicotine patch, and went to work freeing himself from the almighty cigarette.
The patch did wonders until Mr. Mid-life’s quick exit from the house the other morning boycotted the routine application of transdermal medicine.
Needless to say, Mr. Mid-life came face to face with Mr. Fit during a big craving for a smoke on the way to town. Luckily, a spare nicotine patch in the glove box was the saving grace.
But because Mr. Mid-life couldn’t drive and apply the patch in the right place under his shirt at the same time, he slapped the little sucker on his neck before Mr. Fit won him over.
(While the prescription instructions say to apply the patch above the waist, I don’t think it means on the jugular, honey).
And no, Mr. Mid-life, I don’t believe for one minute your story that the extra rush of nicotine compromised your thought patterns and that Mr. Fit is the reason why there is now a set of bongo drums, a tall-standing microphone, and drumsticks in our living room.
Gentlemen, meet Mrs. Conniption.

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