"Don't take life so serious . . ."

There ain't nothing that's so serious that it can't be worked out. Even living can be worked out. Having lost the woman I loved to lymphoma, I find the pain coupled with the loneliness almost unbearable. It's probably nothing compared to the alternative.
She wasn't a very good-looking woman by the time I met her, and in her salad days, probably wouldn't have given me the time of day, she was a very beautiful young woman and I was this Tejano, shorter than she usually dated. She liked them tall and bearded and bald. Odd, I know, but this is what she told me was her ideal. Here I was, short, full head of hair -- a pony-tail, I might add, although I did have a nice, full beard. She was still my beautiful woman. When we dressed after showering or to go out, I'd hug her from behind as we stood there nude, all our rolls of fat and loose flesh hanging, and tell her that I loved her and she was my most beautiful lady. She'd laugh and tell me that I was prejudiced and wasn't really looking at her rear end. I'd laugh and repeat those words, she'd turn and we'd kiss. She was a beautiful woman on the inside where I was looking. She loved me as much as I loved her, I believe. It's something I haven't felt since I was in my twenties --- and again I lost out.