Not So Precious Moment

I'm devastatated. My intended, that is to say, my betrothed, that is to say, the person I had hoped to spend the rest of my days with, colors his hair. Robert, my Robert Redford, 77 years old with that beautiful visage of a walnut, or if you, as I do, prefer, a prune, hits the bottle. I could rationalize. I could say, "I never caught him in the act," "blonds don't gray until their 100s," "At least it's not plugs." But I'm not that kind of woman. I calls it as I sees it. So Robert and I, we're kaput. My profound depression is mitigated by the fact that he was my second choice. Paul was my first love. Need you ask? Paul Newman, of course. Paul had everything. Beautiful blue eyes. A gorgeous body. A Bar Mitzvah. But when I was eight years old, he betrayed me, running off with that trollop, Joanne. I was certain he'd tire of her after 50 years and come running to me. I was partially right. He was so tired of her that he lay down and died after their 50th year together. But for his death and lack of running shoes we'd be stirring puttanesca sauce and shaking balsamic vinaigrette in Westport. Not one to wallow in misery, or waste my time fantasizing, I'm texting George. George who? Clooney of course. You just have to get back on the horse.