I’ve spent the best part of the week listening to my wife harp about how I’m no longer twenty years old, as if I might not have noticed an extra four decades slip by. Last weekend’s little adventure at the mall, rather than distracting her from other things she occasionally likes to rub my face in, seems to have acted as a catalyst, causing her to recall even older past sins. Most notably, the outcome of my 49th birthday has come up… several times.
Apparently, the love of my life is under the impression that we change, as we get older. I don’t mean hair color and muscle tone, I mean general character. She doesn’t seem to recall that I was this way when we first met, while we courted, and for the first half of our marriage.
More to the point, she is suggesting that I had better change.Well, maybe suggest isn’t the right word, but you get my drift.
Naturally, my first reaction is to bristle a bit, at her thinking she can make demands like that. But I suppose I have changed a little, because rather than fly off the handle, and say things for which I would undoubtedly pay for years to come, I kept my cool, smiled winningly, and said, “But you know you love me!”
Let me tell ya, pilgrim… that dog don’t hunt no more! She loves me, of that I have no doubt. She just isn’t the least bit fooled by me anymore.
Come to think of it, the night I came home all bloody (someone else’s, not mine) from my 49th birthday excursion, I think I tried that same line.
It didn’t work then, either.