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My total bad ass husband (PTST) celebrated his birthday this weekend; he’s now 38 years old.  That’s right–fourteen years younger than I.  There are some disadvantages to being married to a much younger man.  Being called his mother by strangers is not my favorite, but that is decreasing as the number of gray hairs on his head increases.  The number of gray hairs on my head is also increasing, but you cannot tell I am aging because I color.  Yeah, yeah, I know, BandAid on a bullet hole.  But it’s all I got.

My beloved likes to celebrate his birthday the same way he celebrates every other day—by sitting in his chair in front of the TV while petting the dog’s head.  Sometimes with the TV on; sometimes not.  As his grandma liked to say, he was born a little old man with the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen.  The eyes are still as blue; they are just harder to see now through the glasses lenses thick as the soles of my orthopedic shoes.  But he remains the old man as which he was born, and these days you can add ‘curmudgeonly’ to the description.

Of course, since he is only 38, he is not entirely ready for the retirement home.  He still loves his Wars, both Stars and Trek.  (Full disclosure:  I stoled that line from 30 Rock.)  He can still do some home renovations, as witnessed by our beautiful newly-updated half-bath.  But the most childlike thing about my husband is his love of presents.  He likes to pretend to be an adult and not want presents, but I stopped falling for that after this exchange one holiday season:

Wife:  How would you feel about donating money to a charity instead of exchanging presents this year?

Husband:  I’d feel robbed.

So there ya have it.  Although the gift requirement is firmly in place, each gift giving occasion requires me to participate in the ‘’I don’t want gifts” game until, as occurred on Thursday, the question, “What presents did you get me for my <insert occasion here>?” is asked.

Because I love this big stupid butthead more than life itself, this year he is getting a recliner that will officially be ‘’his chair.’’  Not that anyone else would want to sit in it after he fouls it with his stench, both body and body function-style.  But every man should have ‘’his chair’’–or ‘’the king’s throne, as my dad refers to his recliner—in which to relax and stare at the blinds, another favorite pastime of my honey.

Unfortunately, this gift coincides with the advent of our crazy idea to build a cabin in the woods, so his time for chair relaxing in the coming days is limited.  But winter will be upon us before you know it, and he will be able to fire up the pellet stove, hunker down in his La-Z-Boy under his Mountaineer throw, snuggle buggle in with his little nugget dog, and watch Fletch to his heart’s content.  And hopefully he think that it’s worth putting up with my crazy ass for a little while longer…






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 He tries really hard

