Peter turned sixty yesterday, and one day in, he keeps discussing his "advanced age."
Every time I enter the room, he reminds me he's still alive and he hasn't broken a hip yet. He had a slight coughing fit that has him convinced he has tuberculosis.
Like you do, as soon as you turn sixty, apparently.
He said, "Good thing you're going to see your therapist today. So you can process how much you love to talk about husbands with a macabre obsession with dying. I know how you love that."
I do love that. So much.
"Here's a fun question," I said. "Do you know how to spell macabre?"
"I don't think that's hardly fair."
"It was just a fun question."
"Oh, yeah, Trish? Here's a fun question. Do you know who was the third baseman for the Baltimore Orioles in 1965?"
"I know you don't, because you weren't alive. His name is Brooks Robinson."
Then he went on about baseball trivia, and I spelled every word he said.
This is the married life.