October 2, 2014
I'm married to a 40-year-old, guys.
Which really, in my book, doesn't qualify as "old," but who am I to argue with his creaking bones, and those grimaces of pain as he shuffles across the room, hand planted firmly on lower back, muttering under his breath all the hardships of these four decades of life?
I mean, I'm just too young to understand all that, ya' know? I know someday I'll bear such wisdom; for now, I sit here in my corner of ignorance, giggling very quietly.
I guess there are upsides to falling apart: you get to visit the chiropractor twice a week for a month; you get to catch up on your "reading" because you have to lie in bed for hours as you cycle through heating and icing your back; and you get to bask in the glow of the concerned looks of strangers as you hobble back through the Fred Meyer parking lot because your wife sent you out grocery shopping anyway, despite the theatrics you've put on especially for her benefit. And so on.
But, at least you get a warm dinner out of it, surrounded by some pretty funny people, who happen to think you're remarkably awesome (even if you did need help getting up and down the restaurant stairs). I'm kidding; you managed those stairs like a pro.
Happy 40th to my dear husband.
I love you more than you know, and am more thankful than I show.
(I'll try to work on that.)