My husband has a December birthday. In fact, it is today. He is 50 years old, and I am freaked out. How the senectitude did I come to be married to a 50 year-old man?
I’m still young! I can dance! I can jog, unless my sciatica is in full swing, then I can limp along like there’s a small animal attached to my ankle! I can still eat anything I want, unless it contains corn, butter fat, or too much sugar! I can see brilliantly, except at close range, at which point anyone into whose eyes I am gazing instantly turns into a cyclops! I can touch my toes except when my lumbar region is out; then I can touch my lumbar region! I can still wear the same clothes I wore in college–pre birthing four children–as long as my shirt strategically covers my midsection and I extend my pants-button with a rubberband!
No. I’m still a chickie-babe. I don’t know where this man who sleeps next to me came from. He’s old.
Although–he DID run a 50-miler in June to celebrate his half-century point. And he plans to run a 100-miler next June to celebrate surviving the 50-miler.
Excuse me. I’m going back to bed. I feel a little . . . fossilized.
You guys are so cute!