I am going to be fifty.
There, I said it. It’s not happening today, this month or this year, probably next year. But, I’m not going to worry about that. OK, I might be worrying a little about it. I might actually be worrying a lot about that. But worry causes stress, and stress causes wrinkles, so I’m worried that my worrying is going to make me age pre-maturely. Although at pre-fifty, I think I’m holding up pretty well.
Recently, my daughters gave me a collection of pictures in which I am sixteen years younger. I held them up and remarked to Paul how black my hair used to be. I expected him to make a loving comment about how much better looking I have become.
He rolls his eyes and whispers to the waitress “He’ll have the seared chicken with barbecue sauce” and the waitress nods knowingly.
“I only need my glasses for reading, I’ll have you know.” I say, offended.
“And the hearing aid to hear.” He whispers.
“Oh nothing, you know, from the neck down, you could pass for a twenty year old.” He says attempting to throw me a bone. I wish I could just accept the second part of that statement and ignore the first.
“So, from the neck up, I might as well be eighty years old is what you’re really saying. What if I decide to let myself go, get fat, wrinkly, bald and smelly?” I ask him.
“Ha! That will never happen; you’re way too vain for that.”
“Damn right....wait, I don’t think you meant that as a compliment…” I say narrowing my eyes.
He laughs at all of my facial lotions, creams and lighteners; better living through chemistry is what I have always said. No, the real issue here is that Paul is afraid I am becoming a literal “Benjamin Button” progressively becoming younger. Then he won’t be the young, pretty one.