And as I find myself in the kitchen more and more, baking fresh bread or losing sleep over absolutely perfect pear tortes, this fluff seems to be settling in for the long haul. Or at least until I actually start jogging with our jogging stroller.
Which reminds me, I'm genetically predisposed to an exercise allergy. It's true. Terrible, terrible reactions.
Mr. Starlet and I long ago came to the conclusion that genetically, we're complete opposites. And while I could mourn the fact that pigs will fly before skinny jeans grace these thighs, I have to admit that I love the genes I'm sporting.
For starters, my great grandmother is alive, well, and, at times, still a bit feisty. Life has slowed her down some, but her social calendar is more full than mine. She owns the land upon which she still lives. She has survived breast cancer. She has survived the loss of her husband and best friend. She never apologizes and doesn't eat sweets. Although she enjoys drinking them.
She has aged stubbornly, if not gracefully, and it was only in the past couple of years that my grandfather convinced her to use a walker--after much cajoling, a few falls, and several loving threats.
While I wouldn't define her as the matriarch of our family, she is certainly an example of our genetic potential.
Mr. Starlet's on the other hand...Let's just say that there are worse things than fluff. And that's why we have life insurance.
If my hips are to be my greatest ill, I am blessed. If I go before Mr. Starlet, I hope my hips fit the chocolate-lined coffin I'm sure he's going to select. And if Mr. Starlet goes before I do, more cake for me.
It's not like I share much anyway.
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