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You’re only as old as your conversation with your husband reveals you to be.

Posted by on December 1, 2011

I got home around 4:30 yesterday and made myself a meal, since I’d sort of skipped lunch and my internal clock was all off. I was just sitting down with it at 5:00 when Gene unexpectedly came in, about an hour before he usually does. I panicked, naturally. Here I was, draped under two afghans, eating dinner at 5:00 in front of an old episode of 30 Rock, like a sad octogenarian, while my youthful husband was just stopping at home on his way to a 25-person dinner party.

“Don’t look at me!” I yelled. “I’m hideous!”

“I’m confused,” Gene said.

“I am eating an early dinner in front of the TV like an old lady, and you caught me,” I said. “But you should know that I went out today! I had friend time!”

“What did you do?”

“Michele and I went to see…the…Muppet movie,” I said, “and, oh God, it was a matinee. I am eighty years old.”

I just re-read this, and I’ve realized it’s all wrong. We DID have this conversation, but what I remember now is that the first thing I actually said when he walked in the door is “Why isn’t the sound on the computer working?”

Yes, friends. While enjoying my pre-sunset dinner and preparing to watch a sitcom episode containing absolutely no sex, violence or Language, I also had a complaint about my electronics which I had to ask my more youthful relative to fix. And, yes, the problem was that I’d accidentally pushed a wrong button on the stereo. Infernal device! Malarky.

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