My wonderful husband, who I adore 91% of the time, is five years younger than I am. And as we grow old (gracefully) together, it seems those years are just morphing together anyway. I mean, let’s be serious here. Once you have marriage, a house, the yellow lab and two crazy kids, you’re all just keeping pace on the same daily treadmill anyway. If you started at 25 or 30, what’s the diff?
Except when conversations like this come up that make me want to check my long-term care insurance, reach for the Exlax and call it a lifetime.
Youth: Had lunch at the Warren Tavern today.
Aged One: Cool.
Youth: You been there? (Try not to sound so surprised, R. I did actually once NOT have a small child attached to my leg.)
Aged One: (likely over zealous) Oh, yeah! The girls and I used to go there a lot when we were on the young and foolish scene.
Youth: Hmmm.
Aged: Actually, I’ll always remember the Warren Tavern ’cause I was there for the OJ chase. I remember a few of us met up for a few beers after work or something. We were all huddled around the bar watching the tv. Crazy.
Youth: …….
Aged: What?
Youth: …..
Aged: What? Where were you then?
Youth: Well…we had a week off between exams and senior prom and I was…
Oh, dear God. Let’s not try that again.
Confessions of a Serial Swooper 
[…] and how you felt “when you knew.” A million years ago, I wrote here about how Husband and I once discussed where we were when OJ Simpson was racing down I-405 in Al Cowlings’ white Bronco. Depending on your age, you […]