He's older than me, for the record.

In marriages, there are things you live for, like Friday night dates, dinners at McDonalds, and each other.

There are other things you live for too, like things you can hold over the other's head. I like these best because they are way fun-er.

(throat clear) Like that Chuck washed my brand new linen shirt in a normal wash and dang, I really loved that shirt the whole ONE TIME I wore it. I might leave him over it. Start the paper work. Or the time he spilled soup on my camera. Still. Not. Over. It. Or when he decided we should paint the exterior ourselves and (yep) we're a year post-house painting and (looky looky) I'm still bitter. But I think my favorite is that he's one whole year older than me.

I love that year.
I treasure that year.
I might name Baby 2053 "That Year".

It's just a joy knowing that no matter how old I am and how bitter I get, he's older. And the three gray hairs that I'm trying to pass as Ultra Blondes, he has an army starting (that year will do that to you). It may not mean much now, but I'm in for the long hall with this "one-up". It's like a long term investment because I know that when he hits those milestones (30, 40, 50) first, I will cash out. I will cash out big. And he and his one year older can eat it.

Today. He's back to a year older after enjoying the brief hiatus of March, April, May. Happy Birthday Chuck. And I'm back to happily being the Younger Woman. Happy Tuesday Susie.

But no matter how old he gets, we get, he's still the cute tall kid who recognized me from the Back to School BBQ and decided it was better to eat breakfast together than eat alone.


And I still think it's cool that he can fly airplanes, even if I'm a tad blase (you know, blah-say) about it and treat it like it's an everyday thing. He was an airline pilot for goodness sakes. He flew people. Real people. In a $40 million jet.

But I still think he's an absolute moron most of the time.



Case. In. Point.

And he's the older, more mature one here.
Chew on that.

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