Good morning. “Yawn”
I took a brief sabbatical from my pc the last couple of days to recharge my batteries. I needed it. I have a tendency to over-prioritize; thereby overwhelming myself, and occasionally just have to stop, close shop, take a deep breath, and wait for the wave of craziness to pass. I find it beats the hell out of medication. If I don’t I get distracted and am unable to do even minor tasks. This is what occurred as of late. The first sign is insomnia—which I’ve fought with the past week—but sleep, glorious sleep, found me last night and today I’m a new person and the better for it. I have a beautiful sunrise outside my picture window trying to clear the cornfields, a fire dancing in the hearth, and a strong cup of joe in my grasp. “Is this Heaven? No, it’s Iowa.”
Today is my husband’s birthday. Today my husband turns 40. I should probably mention that this is my third marriage and to date they’ve only gotten younger. This one, my absolute last, is just a few months shy of being nine years my junior.
Oh, don’t get me wrong ladies, I was flattered at first, but have found with the passing of years it’s become more work than wonder. When we met almost seven years ago the age difference seemed of no consequence. I was healthy, in great shape, and looked quite young for my age. Today…not so much: The back is a lot weaker, eyes are beginning to fail me, gravity is mocking me, and I have the patience of a two year old being forced to sit on his mothers lap. This wouldn’t be a problem if my other half was old and cranky too, but he’s not…he’s 40!
I don’t know why his turning forty is bothering me more than my turning forty once did. I suppose, because like him, I saw it as a milestone I made it to, and didn’t realize it was all downhill after. It’s true. No one could’ve convinced me back then that my size 4 jeans covering a heart-shaped ass was going to jump a couple sizes and take on the peculiar shape of a squirrel with nuts in his cheeks. I blame that on all the spandex they put in jeans now. I don’t want comfort. I want 100% cotton to hold that shit in like a well-worn girdle! Or that my once, keen eyesight that could spot the fine print of a man’s, name tag on his work shirt the moment he walked in the bar, would now fail me at the smallest tasks like knowing how much pepper I put on my eggs. What the hell? I assume it’s these trivial things that bother me now, and well…the fact that he seems happy about reaching this age!
My husband, who’s been watching this change in me take place from the onslaught, now seems completely oblivious to it. Rather, he’s like a boy that just hit puberty and found fuzz on his nuts; all excited about growing old. This, after we went yesterday to get our prescriptions filled for new glasses, and grandma here had to make the decision whether she wanted line or no-line bifocals. You’d think something might’ve occurred to him then? But no…
He smiled as he laid his new frames on the counter, and I continued to peruse the selection they had available. I kept trying on each new pair and looking at him for some kind of positive response that would say I looked more Grandmilf than the grandmother I am. I must have him well-trained, because every pair looked sexy on me, till I finally rolled my eyes and in a huff grabbed an edgier, looking pair with dark frames and tossed them next to his. Today in retrospect I’m questioning this choice, as I think I may have looked more Velma in “Scooby Doo” than a woman of mystery in them—(Sigh!)—but what can you do? Unless they are willing to throw in a few botox injections with the purchase price it probably won’t matter anyway.
“Yeah, that was a lot of fun…and let’s not do it again any time soon!” I thought to myself as we pulled out of the parking space. I looked over to find this shit-eating grin on his mug, and tried to distract myself with the landscape outside the car window so we wouldn’t have to talk. He detoured off the main road, taking the long way home, and I began to relax some, thinking that it was sweet that my feelings were important to him, and this was his way of showing it. Yeah, not so fast… I was soon to learn he may have other intentions.
Okay, I’m not a prude by no means. At least I don’t consider myself so, but then again… I just know there’s a time and place for everything, and wanting to park with your wife in the middle of the afternoon on a secluded, country road when she’s battling the bifocal blues probably isn’t the best time to broach the subject. All I could say as I felt the frown lines creasing between my brows was, “My body is not your playground, and do I look like I’m in the mood to have you swinging on my monkey bars?” And well…that was that!
Today I’m not so moody. A good night’s rest dissipated the undercurrent of tension, and I’m thinking more clearly. I also feel a lot less selfish and have decided to make the best of it. I suppose I can slap a little extra paint on this old jalopy, break out the torture tools for my hair, and grease myself into a pair of skinny’s for him. I can pretend to be the young woman he once spied across the crowded bar, allow him to pretend for this one day that the best years of his life are ahead of him, leprechauns do exist and will grant wishes if you can catch ‘em, etc…etc… I can do this because it’s his day, and we all only get one 40th and deserve to celebrate it when we reach this pinnacle. I guess I could look at this as a perk. The older he gets, the less he can see, the better looking I may get!
Anyway, “Happy Birthday, Honey! It’s all wine and roses from here.”