“Really good men are all from my daddy’s generation and the only ones left are too old even for me. If you’re lucky enough to find one, you’ll never get any. If he even remembers he has that thing all he’s going to be doing with it is letting you change its diaper.” Such — according to she-who-knows-all (known more familiarly as my mother) — is the state of the current husband material pool.
I was horrified at the sudden realization that I’d been in the workforce for over fifty years. Now the thought of spending my days in front of my Viking — expanding the waistline of a very appreciative sweetheart instead of at my computer expanding my firm — is so tempting. However, you-know-who has taken her foot-long virtual hat pin and splattered bubble residue all over my dreams.
That is, before tonight’s presidential debate rekindled the flame on my candle of hope. After yet another of my ten-hour days, I collapsed onto the sofa, flipped on my television and there I found my savior — strong of jaw, steely of eyes, bold and powerful — oozing vinyl concern across the middle of my screen.
Oh, Mittens, you’ve pulled something out of your magic bag for everyone! Have you something left for me? Perhaps a few binders full of muscular, testicled prospects through which I can let my perfectly manicured fingers do the walking?
Social Security, here I come …