Yesterday, I had on jeans, a t-shirt, a long-sleeved shirt and a cardigan. Shane called it a robe because it had a belt closure. Then I draped a blanket over my shoulders and stoked the fire.
"Don't let your robe catch on fire!" he cautioned.
My knees ached from the full day of mist and fog.
"I'm going to put some peppermint oil on my knees," I said. (A friend is into essential oils and tells me about remedies for things. I tried peppermint oil across the back of my neck for a headache that tormented me for hours, and it was gone in ten minutes. She says her mom uses it for achy joints.)
"What has gotten into you?" he asked. "You're all old now."
"Huh? My knees hurt and I'm cold," I said. How is that old?
"You're a step away from Bengay," he continued. "And you've got a robe and a shawl on."
"You're going to make me old," he pushed. "I'm only forty-seven!"
"Oh. Wait. A. Minute," fire now in my eyes. "ONLY FORTY-SEVEN? Like you've suddenly discovered the fountain of youth? Let me get my boots on. All those years you whined you were too old for more kids. (Insert mock whine) 'I'm too old--I'm forty-two ... I'm too old, I'm forty-five.' And now you're forty-seven and full of vigor."
He laughed too.
"I think I'm due for a midlife crisis," he said.
I shook my head.
My wish lists generally include a baby in them.
This year for Christmas, I remarked to Shane that I would (still) like a dehumidifier or an electric griddle.
I didn't even realize it. He pointed it out.
"This is the first year you didn't ask for a baby."