In December I turned 35. Which is a hard number to lie to yourself about. 34, at least, can be referred to, perhaps erroneously, as early thirties. Early to mid.
Liz, in January, turned 30, at which point her good-natured jabs about my debilitating old age in contrast to her everlasting youth came to a halt.
Recent evidence that Liz and I are, indeed, not kids anymore:
1. This past fall I turned my sprinklers on a group of middle-schoolers I felt were walking too closely to my front lawn.
2. On Monday (or sometimes Tuesday) nights, Liz and I have a “Downton Date”…
3. …in which we watch the latest episode of Downtown Abbey On Demand. We can’t watch the latest episode of Downton Abbey on Sunday night, with the rest of America, because it comes on at 9PM, at which point we are both already asleep.
4. Similarly: on a trip to Portland in October Liz and I decided to go dancing. Like at a club. Fighting off our yawns we donned our best and made our way to a nightclub across from our hotel. We were surprised at how empty the place was. So we asked. It was empty because it was 8:30.
5. A conversation we had yesterday in the car:
ME: Have you ever taken a selfie?
LIZ: I’ve taken pictures of me and Tommy. Are those selfies?
ME: I don’t think so. I think those are just pictures.
LIZ: Then no, I don’t think I have. No…well…yeah…when we were first dating I took that picture of my hair. When I got that haircut.
ME: Oh, yeah. (pause) What’s the purpose of a selfie? Like, what are they for? Is it, like, for your profile page, or something?
(Long pause)
LIZ: We sound old. This conversation would make a good twitter. (pause) Tweet.
B.H. James 