It's so hard getting old. Your body changes. You are still YOU deep inside your mind, but when you walk by a mirror you almost get a "WTF???????" scare at how much the mind you looks nothing like the body you. Hair changing. Skin changing. Mind changing. It's the beginning of the end, that long disappointing spiral down, the intricate knowledge that you will never be that young, beautiful, strong, healthy wonder you once were in your prime.
This is all assumed. I'm not old. Hell, no! I'm nowhere NEAR old! People say 40 is the new 16-year-old virgin, and I haven't hit it yet (40, not the new 16-year-old virgin). Jay, on the other hand, the love of my life, the keeper of my heart, the man I can't live without, is old. I love him, but the man's ANCIENT. Being more than half a decade older than me, I've had much in common with another common trophy wife-old man marriage - Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones. See, when they first hooked up, it was trophy wife. He was still handsome, she was young and beautiful. But.....jump ahead 15 years later, and he now looks exactly like his a zombie from Walking Dead and she's still gorgeous, but just a tired, worn-out version of her former beautiful self. This is what happens when men marry trophy wives. It's good for them. Not good for us.
But I do love the man with all my heart. We were sitting down yesterday talking about our days, and I was doing my usual bruise check on him. Jay's been rearranging and moving a lot of heavy stuff around here lately, so he's battered and bruised. I personally like to pretend people at his work think he's a victim of spousal abuse. I know it's wrong, but it makes me feel tough and I like that. When I find bruises, I have to push on them really hard to see if it hurts him. When he yelps, I ask the origin of the bruise. If it's worthy (i.e. he was getting up to turn off the light for me and bumped his leg on the bed) then I'm Nurse Nightingale and it's all good. If it's not worthy (i.e. he scraped his knuckles carrying something too heavy when I had specifically said to get one of these strong lazy kids to help him), then it usually gets another "Are you sure it hurts?" poke.
While searching for bruises, I found a spot. Jay has all kinds of these "spots" now, and they worry me because I know for certain I would've been repelled had they existed when we first met. I don't need a spotty man in my life. They are in different places where before there were none. Some are light brown. Some are a bit raised. All are unwanted. He has had a full-body check and whenever I see a spot I don't like the looks of, he tells me his doctor told him it was a "gift from God." I'm sure that's meant to be amusing, but I don't believe God is giving out skin spots as gifts. If you got something so gross from God Himself, you're on His naughty list and you better start reevaluating your eternal soul.
Not impressed with his lazy recurring answer, I told him I believe it looks more like cancer and he should let me get a razor and slough it off. He, of course, declined. I said, "Fine, when it's cancer, don't come crying to me because I told you it was cancer." He looked upon my angry face and said gently and lovingly, "Babe, I'm sure it IS cancer. It's cancer of the soul. Living with you for so long has literally eaten up every bit of my soul and left me with pieces scattered on my body as a reminder that I have cancer of the soul."
You'd think this would make me sad, knowing my fear of him having cancer has been affirmed and also knowing he's got just confetti pieces of soul left. It should, but it didn't. Why wouldn't his soul pieces just disappear altogether? Why would he be left with little ugly pieces for me to discover and worry even more about? What if the cancer of the soul on his skin metastasizes into cancer of the sense of humor? What if it spreads to become cancer of the financial wisdom? Who will make me laugh and figure out the bills for me if that happens? My husband may think his cancer is my fault, but I beg to differ and I find absolutely nothing amusing about it. Gift from God? I think not.
Queen of my own Magic Kingdom, full of all the irreverent, obnoxious, and sometimes offensive sarcasm you know and love. I don't care what people think of me, but I do care if you like my blog. Read, forward, repeat.
