Life makes my world go round

Let me give my fellow mid-40-something gals some sage counsel.
“Don’t look down!”
No mature woman should ever evaluate her image—dressed or buck-naked—by looking down. That’s what mirrors are for—mirrors on a wall. And the farther away you stand from one, the slimmer you get.
And if you have a hand-held mirror, hold it above your head when checking out your foundation.
Whatever you do, just don’t look down.
Too bad I didn’t heed my own warning. If I had, I wouldn’t be considering getting a facelift and a one-way ticket to a tummy spa in California.
While it would seem my exercise routine is making gains (or should I say losses) in butt circumference and in my piano legs, it is most surely bypassing the “Buddha.”
In fact, I’ve almost given up trying to fix that area I blame squarely on the child-bearing years of my youth. I could have buns of steel and still be able to grab a handful of baby fat below my belly button.
And seeing as how that division of my “2000 parts” remains stubbornly “out there,” maybe I could make myself feel better if I blamed it on another fantastic adventure that comes with being a mature woman.
Then, from this day forward, the “Buddha” would be forever known as “Menopot”—the tummy created by menopause.
But knowing me, my alter ego will take over and I’ll just start doing sit-ups—for the umpteenth time in my life—as I attempt once again to rise above the forces of nature.
Or maybe it’s just high time for Pete to come home and rid me of my self-inflicted frustrations.
Heaven knows the rest of my world is ready for a visit from Mr. Fantastic.
As the matter of fact, I’m hoping he can give me a few lessons on the side.
For the last three weeks, we’ve been teaching ourselves how to use a new toy, and I expect with all the time Pete’s had on his hands up north (outside of working and sampling new desserts) that his prowess will be in far advance of mine.
I know this for sure because the instruction book he got with his new toy was too difficult for me to understand. I had to go down a notch to the “Guitar Book for Dummies” version.
Yes, folks, at 42 and 45 years of age (Pete married an older woman), we are learning to read music from scratch and—on purpose—go through the pain of making calluses on the tips of our fingers so that by mid-June we can duel “Kumbaya” and “Sweet Chariot” by the campfire.
All kidding aside, I liken the experience of learning to play the guitar to eating a jalapeno pepper—somewhere between pain and pleasure. And the “Guitar Book for Dummies” assures me the pain will pass.
I’m counting on it.
So besides a renewed Friday night pizza-making, wine-sipping affair with my husband, we’ll be able to tune each other’s world with a pick.
I’d even go so far as to say that I’m looking forward to a streak of Pete’s unorganized and unkempt side of life. In fact, I went so far as to leave the bed unmade the last few mornings—just so I’d be prepared for when he comes home.
That was all good, until while chatting with Pete on the phone the other day, he told me he’d been making his bed religiously every morning before beginning his day.
That’s a first.
Then he told me he’d been placing his guitar (which he fondly referred to as “her”) gently on top of his newly-made bed until it was time to practise.
Something tells me Mr. Guitar is in for tune-up lesson on having two women in his life and—while he’s home—which one gets placed gently “you know where.”

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