I married a man who is fifteen years older than me. If we had met when we were younger, it would have been inappropriate: 16 and 1, 30 and 15, 36 and 21.
But we were 44 and 29, both of us on solid ground as grown-ups, and so it worked!
Nobody ever believes my husband’s age. I didn’t when I met him. He doesn’t look or act it. He is both the oldest and the most energetic dad at school. He is often compared to George Clooney. I am so lucky!
Marrying someone older has many perks, but one drawback. We can’t take time for granted. There is a sense of here-and-now, or never. How can I imprint upon his heart the gorgeousness of each year we have together, and how the still miracle of his existence brings the boys and me such delight?
I don’t want to want to resort to clichés:
Age is just a number. Be grateful for every birthday; the alternative is death.
Happy, useful thoughts.
Without the clichés, I can only rely upon memories.
…sunset on Sanibel Island, picking sand dollars up with your toes, football on the beach, picnics in the Everglades and Big Cypress, watching water spouts on the boat, playing chicken with Lily and the boys in the pool, finding conch in the Bahamas, Rossana’s wedding, how much you missed us when we were gone, bowling, the shoals of fish on Sunday mornings, stingray sightings, fishing in the Everglades and the canals down the street, dancing with me at the Silver Ball and that weird wedding, camping in the backyard, building a fire and roasting marshmallows, building forts, the Spartan race, taco dinners, Easter brunch, trick-or-treating, flan, making love, playing ball, feeding the chickens, playing with Betsy, going on hikes, watching football with the boys, hearing them giggle at cartoons, bike rides…
It’s not nothing. This year, every year, every minute.
Happy solar return, my love.
Let’s keep riding this rock around our favorite star together as the universe expands beyond the limits of our understanding.