As far as I am concerned, if you have been married for more than thirty years, it might as well be a hundred. It certainly seems that long. I have been married longer than I haven’t, and I am not sure that getting to know another person that well is an advantage.
For instance, I can finish all of his sentences. As a matter of fact, I could probably start and finish all of them. There really isn’t any need for him to open his mouth at all, because I can just speak for him most of the time. Frankly, I am a much better story teller than he is, anyway. He messes up the chronology.
Being married for eons presents other problems. First off, the mystery is gone forever. Not only do you know what the other looks like naked, but you have the entire topography of your spouse memorized. This bodes well for the times when you can say, “Hey, that mole looks a little bigger. Maybe you should have it checked.” But it is not exactly fodder for romance: “You know, that pot belly gets bigger every month.”
I met my husband when I was eighteen. At the prime of my physical powers. He was no slouch either, at aged twenty-four. We were mere children. We could dance all night. Not that either of us knew how to dance without looking as if we were having some sort of spastic event. We could eat spicy food and then go right to bed without having acid reflux all night. We could walk on the beach for hours, and never get foot cramps. For heaven’s sake—we still thought our parents were stupid, that’s how young we were!
If you can remember a time when you worried about losing your husband to “boys’ night out,” but now you just wish he’d get the hell out of the house once in a while, you have probably been married a hundred years. If you swear that if you hear “two rabbis walked into a bar” one more time, you will punch him; you have been married for a century. And if he gets a certain look in his eye and you say “Are you nuts? We did that three months ago,” then you know you are in the century set.
I have been married for a hundred years. Just last night, when we were out to dinner, I spit on my napkin and wiped a little drip off his chin. Then we doddered home to rub Ben Gay on each other’s backs. He calls me “Hon.”
I think it may be because he has forgotten my name.