In retrospect, my wife—journalist, mother, yoga phenom—clearly had a somewhat extreme interpretation of bearable.
When the stages of life are followed in order: birth, aging, illness, and death—they are bearable.
Just a gradual, bearable, steady impoverishment in a world where savings linked to the value of paper money languish.
It dispelled the visions—and it was bearable because it did that.
The weather was pretty calm, and the cold without breeze was bearable.
The one thing necessary, the one thing which would have made the calamity bearable, perhaps better than bearable, was wanting.
The temperature was just bearable, but the road was toilsome from its uneven character.
A child—a sick child especially—was a bearable adjunct to the picture.
If I had not a good heart, I should not be bearable any where.
When Earth government didn't count the expense, life could be made considerably better than bearable almost anywhere.