My Own Mr. Big

I married an older man.

He’s twelve years older than I am. It didn’t matter to me when we met, when I was 25 and he was 37. He was proud, when he turned 41 and I was still only 29. It never bothered me that he is closer in age to my parents than he is to me.

He was established in his career – one of our first dates was the party to celebrate his becoming tenured at the university – while I was just discovering mine. He owned a house. He knew his way around a tool box. He handled things. He was emotionally stable, yet playful and adventurous. Plus, he was hot.

I wouldn’t say he swept me off my feet but I definitely knew he was the one and I let him romance me and buy me diamonds and take me on vacation. Here we are today in one version of the American dream (minus the dog, which we realized was more of a nightmare for us).

Now he’s close to 50. FIFTY. Mid-life. Will he have a crisis? Let’s hope not. So far he is having a mid-life renaissance: he’s lost weight without trying, his cholesterol has gone down for no reason, his business is growing, his children provide him with great joy, and let’s just say we’ve become closer as a couple. I’m still the young wife, although some days I feel like I’m a hundred years old.

Long ago I told him I’d buy him the Rolex watch he’s always dreamed of, the same one his father had when he was a boy, when he turned fifty. That’s only two years away now. I’d really like to give him something like that as a symbol that I’m so grateful for all he’s given me. I’d better start saving my pennies.

Happy Birthday, sweetheart.