Old Man Winter

The Man turns 41 this weekend.
And, true to form, I must celebrate in true wifely fashion.
No, I do not mean sexy negligees and sexual favors. That would require me to do something involving effort.
Nope, I will put pen to paper and celebrate in a more cerebral fashion.
The Man says 41 is much harder for him to accept than 40, so I'm gonna try to help him along.
The Man has much more hair than he used to. Unfortunately, it's not on his head. But what is on his head is turning a very distinguished gray. As it heads south for the winter.
The Man has great stamina. He naps for the longest time, at the drop of a hat. His narcoleptic tendencies are a running joke between us now.
He has a memory like you wouldn't believe. Meaning he forgets what he was supposed to remember as soon as he's told it.
He is a clean fanatic. His OCD tendencies are becoming firmly ingrained, so that, when we are old and gray, I won't have to do any cleaning, because, aside from naps and bathroom breaks, he will do nothing else.
The Man is aging into a terrific father. He's settling into his role with grace and style (and a touch of child induced deafness) and our children are the better for it.
And he might turn into an acceptable husband in time. Might. He's aging well, like a moldy cheese, and, I'm hoping, as he molds more each year, I continue to like that brand of cheese. If I start craving a sharp, young cheddar, there might be problems.
The Man thinks 41 is old. Well, honey, it is. But I think you've still got a few good years left before we start buying Depends and Geritol.
We'll save that for next year.
Happy birthday, honey!
Smooches!
(And watch me run away now!)