Okay, he’s not exactly my boyfriend… we’ve been married for almost ten years. But I’ve known him since he was about twenty-three, and let me tell you something: this man just gets better and better with time. It’s a fact.
Everyone knows that forty is one of those milestone birthdays… comes replete with at least a few “lordy-lordy” cards and gag gift coupons for Viagra and stuff. When I look at my pensive, exhausted boyfriend, I know exactly why he’s feeling as he is. Could he really be halfway through his life already? He watches his kids grow older, and he watches his parents grow older, and he watches more silver hair creeping into the temples and the beard. And other places.
But it’s not my birthday. I’m just here to spread the love and the wishes. And to remind him that we’re so very happy he was born. And to remind him that though sometimes one wonders if this is all there is, what it IS, is purely stellar… and there’s more and more and more of it.
Otherwise, Saturday mornings wouldn’t look like this:
So, it’s a good thing he’s here. And MY! But ain’t he a sexy rascal! Bonne Fête, mon beau.
My sweet, darling Martin, I must tell you these few things… you are super-duper old now. Really, you are. But it’s okay because a) you still look really, really hot and you don’t have any love-handles at all, and 2) you can still do ALL the heavy lifting, such as the couch when you do your EPIC vacuuming jobs, 3) you send me flowers when it totally counts the most, and d) we love you as much as we always did. Maybe more! (Maybe less…) But for certain, it would be an awful thing to live in this house with the children BY MYSELF so it’s really a good thing that you’re here for protection for decoration for my amusement. Because anyway, everything is always about ME.
Thanks for always agreeing with my home improvement ideas. And thanks for never complaining about the time and the costs associated with them. Your new TV is only the beginning… (Aren’t I the BEST mistake you ever made?!)
Je t’aime. I love August 15th. For reals.
G.G.
