I look at my wife across the breakfast table. She looks tired. She’s been looking tired a lot recently. It’s probably my fault, but there’s not a lot I can do about that. She was forty-four when I met her, a youthful forty-four. She’s forty-eight now but looks closer to midfifties. She’s put on a few pounds, keeps going on about “perimenopause” when she’s ten years younger than Jennifer Aniston, who doesn’t appear to have any problem keeping herself in shape. I want to tell her to put less butter on her toast, but I can’t because that would be unpleasant, and I am a very pleasant man and a
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