Happily Never After

Okay, let me put down this tankard of haterade I'm swilling so I can admit having sunk to a new psychic low.

After reading an online news story about an 89-year-old woman who just married a 93-year-old man, I'm finding myself vaguely jealous of that connubial crone. First of all, you'd expect an 89- year-old woman to be named "Hester" or "Prudence," right? Well, this weathered wench is named "Monica." WTF?? I bet she was probably head cheerleader in high school or something--that is if they even had cheerleaders during the Paleolithic Age. And the heifer's already buried two husbands, and yet somehow managed to snag a 3rd.

Here I am half her age and have only had one proposal, and that came from the Hapless Haitian who bought my engagement ring from Sears. On layaway, probably. (But do NOT get me started on that!) Six days out of 7, being a "never married woman of a certain age" suits me just fine.

But what is the friggin' frequency when an 89-year-old woman can land her THIRD husband, and I'm lucky to have a few dates each year with guys possessing the minimally required level of chromosomes?? I mean, I am at the peak of my potency, in every sense of that word, but it's all just slowly drifting south, stalked by the twin spectres of Gravity and Dementia that do a brisk Australian crawl through the shallows of the Jones family gene pool. With all due respect, at 89 and 93, Mon and her betrothed could both drop dead attempting anything more amorous than holding hands. They got a year, tops, before one or both of 'em lapses into an irreversible coma.

What's the point???

Monica's new husband, Ebenezer Rose, summed it up best. (Now see???? OG got it right...a 93 year old man HAS to have a name like "Ebenezer," for Chrissakes! There are laws relating to this somewhere, I'm positive!!!) When he was asked that question, he replied,

"Each of us is living a lonely life. Why not get married?"

Somehow, from the depths of the Bile River coursing through my veins, buried deep in the folds of my bitter, Grinchified heart, that actually made sense. Just because a person is 93 doesn't mean they don't get lonely...OR that they don't have the right to do something about it. So maybe someday 40 years from now, I'll meet MY Prince Charming.

If the haterade doesn't pickle my liver first.