Aging Like Fine Wine. Or Was It Old Cheese.

I had a birthday last week. It was pretty wonderful - a few girlfriends took me out to dinner the night before, and the night of my actual birthday me, Rigel the girls and two of our best friends went out for sushi. (Is that sentence grammatically correct? Because all the holes in my aged brain are impeding my language skills.) I got so many great gifts - beautiful handmade cards, a candle and soap from the girls, bouquets of flowers, a huge basket of cookies from my sister and this awesome gadget from Rigel, as well as birthday phone calls all day long from family and friends, not one of them mentioning how much slower my metabolism seemed or the extra flab on on my upper arms.

I don't really like getting older, so I'm not going to get all Lifetime Channel on you and enthuse about how each advancing year is getting me closer to the 'real me' or how I'm like a flower, a truly beautiful flower that's just about to bloom. Or how every new morning brings new insight or that old tired adage about age being just a number (said the 19-year-old.) And don't expect any lectures from me on how those young people in their twenties really don't know what they're missing or that load of crap about how I wouldn't trade my wisdom for my youth. Because show me the scientist that could give me back my porcelain skin and tight ass I will gladly FedEx him my frontal lobe wrapped in a pretty bow and packed in dry ice.

But I will tell you that getting older is a little easier with a husband like mine, one who let me sleep in on my birthday while he got the girls up, dressed and fed and took them to school and then, while I still slept and he was late for work, made me a big breakfast and left it for me in the warming drawer. Because this is a man who knows that the true path to my heart is not necessarily through romance and flowers but through a couple of over-easy eggs, a slice of wheat toast and two pieces of bacon.

And the best part? He had left little notes all around the house, everywhere from my favorite coffee mug to the inside of the refrigerator, that I was finding all day long. I told him how much I loved this and how I was so touched that after thirteen-and-a-half years of marriage he would think of something so sweet and romantic to do. He looked happy for a second but then got one of those looks on his face that guys get when you've used the word 'cute' to describe the engine in their new car, or when you make them carry your purse while you go to the bathroom and he said, "Let's not let this get around."

It was then that I realized that if I ever wanted a repeat performance of his sweet birthday gesture it would be wise to keep pretty tight-lipped about it. And if it ever got out to his friends, say through idle gossip or perhaps through someone's blog, I'd better not reveal the truth, that those notes were composed of birthday sentiments and heartfelt 'I Love You's', but instead I'll just tell everyone that they contained numerous requests for hot monkey sex.

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tags: birthdays | not getting older, getting bitter | manly macho behavior

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