How To Have A Romantic Anniversary or How To Torture Your True Love--If You're a Girl

Hubby and I celebrated our eighteenth wedding anniversary over the weekend. Not only does this make me sound really old, but what we did makes me sound even older--and just a fraction cracked.

Don't believe me? You might after I'm done writing this. And sorry in advance to my mom and hubby. Maybe.

So, what romantic activity did we engage in for our anniversary? A secluded retreat to a condo without the kids? A leisurely stroll along the fall colored mountain trails? A romantic candle-lit dinner? Um, no. We went bra shopping. Yup. My hubby loves me that much. It went something like this:

Me, showing hubby a newspaper advertisement for said clothing sale: Hey! Look! A sale!

Hubby: Okay?

Me: You want to go?

Hubby, just staring at me like I was a little cracked. (This happens more than you'd think it would. Strange.)

Me: Will you come with me?

Hubby: Do I have to stand in the bra department?

Me: No. You can go to housewares if you want.

Hubby secretly rolling his eyes. (It's secret because his actual physical eyes didn't roll, but I sensed the inner, mental rolling, because I can feel stuff like that.): Sure.

AND after I tortured him in the bra deptartment, Hubby took me to the book store. I left with two new books. Then he took me to dinner where he said this, "I have great respect for you."

And I said, "Respect?"

And he said, "Based on fear. I'm afraid you might bite me and I'll bleed out through my jugular."

See, isn't that romantic? And, yes mom, I am sorry for posting about bra shopping.

And, (just so I can start another sentence with and) I love you my awesome hubby.

The Herald of Doom

I found a white hair. Just one. Nestled in amongst the brown ones. At first I thought, No, it can't be. It's a trick of the light. I'm still young. I'm vibrant. I'm only th--

Well,*clears throat* never mind how old I am, just know it's not ancient. (At least I didn't feel ancient until I found the impostor hair.)

I yanked it out.

It deserved to die for bringing me the silvery message of approaching age. I stared at it as the whole world paused. Really it did--for about seven-point-three seconds. Then it screeched back into motion, faster than ever. If you've been feeling dizzy, that's why. The world sped up. All because of one white hair heralding the coming end. My end. I'm going to age like a time lapse photo. Wrinkles will flow down my face like melting wax, age spots will bloom on my skin like mutant tattoos, and a walker will materialize next to my bed some morning. And, I'll develop a sudden inexplicable liking for polka music.

Yup that's my future. Wrinkles, spots, assisted walking devices, and polka. Shudder.

I showed my hubby the monster hair. He said I was a bit wacked and obsessed. I mean, all I did was stare at it for extended periods of time and bewail my lost youth. At least I did, until he threw it away and told me to get over it. Can you imagine? Seriously. He's the one who threw away my hair. I mean, who throws away good hair? I'm aging. I might need that back for a wig.

All right, hubby didn't tell me to get over it. He said his own gray hairs didn't bother him because he knew I loved him anyway. So why should mine bug me? He loved me no matter what color my hair turned.

Sheesh. Sniffle. What a way to ruin a girl's old age rant. Yup, he's a keeper. The white hair wasn't. But, I'm going to call my sister and schedule a coloring just to be on the safe side.