Back in early May, before my big birthday (and no, I'm not mentioning that birthday again just because I'm not done complaining about it--it's relevant to the story. No, really, it's relevant!) Youngest had a homeschool band end-of-the-year performance at the church where they rehearse every week.
Coincidentally, the end o'year festivities always fall on an unseasonably warm day. And since it's an auditory event and the AC system is too loud to be employed, we are treated to a long, sweltering evening of sitting still and listening, from beginning to end, to a concert that ranges from the squeakily untalented beginner band through the deep and well oiled machine that is the advanced band. Oh--plus the speeches and thank yous and gift giving and goodbye-to-the-grads stuff sprinkled in between numbers. Good times!
Three hours packed into a stuffy, doors closed, no-ventilation-whatsoever church listening to dozens of other kids (and really, I'm only there to hear my kid) in reality only feels like 6 hours. Seven tops. Bored minds tend to wander . . .
So I'm sitting there thinking about boobs (I am unable to untangle the thread that led me to that particular thought) and how women with enormous boobs are intimidating. How when greeting a woman with Dolly Parton-esque equipment, I don't want a hello hug--I don't want hers touching mine (which actually must happen whenever any two women embrace, but is so much more noticeable--and uncomfortable!--when the other woman is of pachydermic proportions.)
Meanwhile, Mister (also no longer interested in the beginner band's halted, strained rendition of Sakura) was contemplating the attractive red headed woman a couple rows in front of us. She looks older than me but is still lovely. She's petite and fit and has kept herself up nicely. Trying to decide her age, suddenly Mister has a shocking revelation. The middle of Mickey Mouse March seemed, to Mister, to be the appropriate moment to share his epiphany with me.
Leaning close to my ear for privacy, he yelled (he's practically deaf--his whispers are everyone else's outbursts) "You're going to be 40?"
"Yes," I answer. And thanks for rubbing it in!
"I just realized," he continues, no notion in his head that he's already speedwalking down a dangerous path, "we could potentially live at least another 40 years. I don't know if I can put up with you for 40 more years."
Husband of the Year, anyone?