Work in general: If you lug home 4 files over the weekend, you need a fifth to do the work.
Physical fitness: Any woman can have the body of a 21-year-old. She just has to buy him enough drinks first. (It was pointed out to me that the above is a direct corollary of the fact that everyone gets cuter in proportion to how close it is to closing time. However, I prefer to think of it, instead, as a fresh, charming thought – and perhaps hope for the future!)
Conspiracy theory: There is clearly a diuretic in hand cream. Otherwise why do you need to use the toilet (and thus wash your hands again) as soon as you put it on?
It’s all about timing:
- My phone is programmed somehow not to ring unless and until I am in the shower or otherwise unable to answer it – particularly if I’m waiting for a call.
- The children know that the best time for crises is when mom is in a rush.
- Computers like to get your attention in a similar way. Crashes are in direct proportion to how badly you really need the material right away.
- Any communication confusion between my husband and me is pretty much guaranteed to occur when my patience is at its thinnest. (gee, I wonder why?)
[There are correlaries to this last: 1) Ergo, I attempt to remain silent, though deadly, when feeling frayed. Which often leads to a point where really, all that is left is 2) quiet hallway sex: passing one another in the hall, muttering “fuck you”.]
AND – perhaps most important of all:
Growing older is inevitable.
Staying immature is an art form.
Words to live by.