So I’ve started writing my next book called Horsing Around with Murder, a semi-cozy mystery featuring all the usual culprits–murder, secrets, intrigue, and a bumbling sleuth (some of you may remember Auntie Beth from Fur Ball Fever). As an added bonus, I up the ante with a large dose of inappropriate boomer humor and a sprinkle of mostly appropriate boomer romance.
Here’s an excerpt describing a situation Beth finds herself in. I know for a fact that many women, including myself, have experienced something similar.
Dodie yelled across the lobby. “You’re late. It’s nearly noon. Guests are due any second.”
“Couldn’t be helped.”
Beth had no intention of describing the fashion crisis that had delayed her arrival. Okay, so maybe the cowboy boots she’d filched from Grace’s closet were a half size too small. Those four-inch heels, which lengthened and slimmed her legs, were surely worth a little discomfort. But cramming this year’s booty into last year’s jeans had been a huge mistake. It had taken fifteen minutes and plenty of muscle while lying flat on her back to zip them up. At least the loose, tie-dyed top she’d bought at Happy Hippy Clothing Co. camouflaged a multitude of sins. The supersized muffin-top spilling over the waistband would remain her little secret.
The stretch of floor from the entrance to the counter seemed endless. In spite of the discomfort—make that throbbing pain—Beth refused to hobble as she made her way across the lobby. On reaching the reception area, she was breathing hard, partly from pain, but mainly from compression. She parked her butt gingerly in the vacant chair beside Dodie, suppressing the old-folk grunt that wanted to escape.
Dodie’s eyes narrowed, the kind of scrutiny only therapists ferreting out the truth could summon. “You’re limping, you’re frowning, you’re sweating, and you seem to have difficulty breathing. Everything okay?”
“Yeah, right.” Dodie leaned closer to Beth. “You’re awfully flushed.”
“Stop nagging. It’s these skinny jeans I’m wearing. They’ve forced all my blood north, and everything south of my waist is screaming in agony. Everything, that is, except my good parts, you know, the bits we never mention in polite company. Those parts are in overdrive. What if they never work right again?”
“They’ll settle down as soon as you dress normally.”
Please comment and let me know which of you relates to Beth’s uncomfortable situation.