The Perils of a May-December Romance
You work hard all day long to bring home the bacon. You spend eight long hours in that rat race, and when you’re finally off the clock, you just want to sit back with your newspaper, spend some time alone, and unwind.
But your impossibly young and adoring wife has spent all day home, alone, watching the soaps and folding the laundry, dying for a chance to talk to somebody – anybody – about all of the thoughts and ideas and dreams that run through her pretty little head and she just wants to play, just for a little bit – why can’t she play, huh? Why can’t she have a little excitement in her day?
But you work so hard. All you want is some peace and quiet, a hot home-cooked meal and just some time to relax, take your mind off things, perhaps chew on your favorite potato. But there she is. This beautiful, needy, exquisite young woman for whom you have to keep working so dang hard to keep happy. Because, really, would this hot little lady be with an old curmudgeon like you if you weren’t bringing home that bacon?
You could’ve settled down with a woman your own age, a more mature woman with an established sense of self and a little less energy. But, more than silence, more than serenity, you want to be able to look up from your newspaper at night and see that face – those perky ears, those big, black, beady eyes, that tongue that seems to go on for miles and miles. And so you give in. You roll over. You play. She wins.