Two days ago I looked up at Matt and saw a short little white hair nestled in the right side of his head. It could have easily been missed. "Matt! Stop! You have a gray hair!" I may have taken a little too much joy in discovering it since I've been very alone on the gray hair front. He didn't believe me, and rushed over the mirror. But sure enough there it was, an early birthday present. Welcome to your mid-thirties my dear, dear husband. It's just another thing we both now share.
Matt keeps looking at it, seeing if it's still there, as though the arrival of this gray hair has ushered in a new, maybe not so great era. I, being the year older that I am, assured him that the difference between 34 and 35 ain't so big. But I could tell it wasn't working. "You're about to turn 36!" he said to me. "Only 4 years away from 40. I hear that the day you turn 40 everything starts to hurt." Don't know about that. Luckily we've got a few more years until we have to find out. But in the meantime, I think 35 is a perfect age. Old enough to be taken seriously, but still young enough to take careful advantage of youth. Old enough for gray hairs, but young enough to still fit in at a dance club. How many ages can you say that about? But even when that fades, we will glide through it together, babe. We always do.
Happy Birthday.
