For my birthday this weekend, Sheri gave me eight Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, of which I gulped five (you can guess who ate the rest). Why not? It’s a shared joy, my birthday, because it means Sheri just got a year younger. Sort of.
Until the end of November, we’re no longer HimPlus17. For the time being, we’re HimPlusSIXTEEN.
The first time we celebrated my birthday, Sheri seemed giddy, as if a seventeen-year difference had been, well, cradle robbing, but a sixteen-year difference was one nobody would even notice. She had a similar reaction when I turned thirty. That meant we could tell people that I was “in my thirties” and Sheri was “in her forties.” Leave it, then, for people to guess the details. After all, the guesses have most often been wrong. My gray beard coupled with Sheri’s vitality usually leads people to think we’re a same-age couple.
Maybe, for Sheri’s birthday in November, I should shave.
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