We're Getting Older

Yesterday was Hubby's birthday. He turned -- it seems impossible to me -- 74.

I first met him when he was 37. I was a blushing 26.

We started "dating" when he was 38. We had two dates, actually, in March of 1973. We've been together, a couple living together, ever since the end of the second date.

We got married when he was 43.

He nearly died when he was 71 -- but he was just too stubborn to realize that the aneurysm he suffered was supposed to do away with him. Every day since then has been a bonus.

He's getting deafer. His knees are shot. He's insulted because his optometrist told him he was getting cataracts. His blood pressure is very difficult to control. He has diabetes.

He's always lived life on the edge, never traveling the safer road. In 1973 he told me he wouldn't live past 50.

I see him as invincible. It's been more a struggle for me than for him to admit that there are physical things he can no longer do. In my eyes he's the same as he was in 1973. He's been more accepting of the indignities that occur with the aging process.

So we head into his 75th year, our 36th year together, our 32nd year of marriage. There is both security and fear in these numbers.