"For the Rest of Your Life, Babe"

I sing and dance when I feel good. Not well, mind you. My younger son was but a toddler, trapped in a moving vehicle with his off-key mother, when he said, "Mom, can you please sing inside your head?" That about sums up my talent. 

My singing is important, though. It's a sign that I feel good. It's not just a good mood thing -- it means I feel healthy and have extra energy to burn -- and that's not always the case.

While preparing dinner last night I was in fine form, groovin' to classic rock and belting out some fairly horrific sounding notes. Then I considered my husband, working in our home office, and wondered if I was annoying him. How could he concentrate with my off-key chorus? But it felt too good to stop.

My precarious health situation this past year means that he appreciates just about anything I do, simply because I'm here to do it. That's got to wear off eventually, right? 

 At dinner I asked the question. "How long will it last? How long will I be able to get away with making a racket before you quit appreciating my mere presence and ask me to cut it out?" 

Thoughtful pause. 

"I'd say pretty much for the rest of your life, babe. Sing all you want. I like to hear it."

'Nuff said.



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