A few years ago, I began noticing brown age spots spreading across the back of my husband’s hands. His father had these same spots in the same place.
“We’ve been hanging out together a long time,” I say to Michael, as we scroll through our respective devices on our faded green corduroy couch. “I can’t believe it’s been 42 years.”
“Forty-three,” he replies, matter of fact.
Michael knows my math skills are abominable. Early in our relationship, he thought I was faking it – trying to be funny. But honest to God, sometimes I cannot remember how old I am, let alone how old our marriage is.
I was 24 when I met Michael, 25 when we got engaged, 26 when we got married, 27 when I got pregnant with our first child. We barely knew each other when we said our vows, though of course we thought we knew everything.
But how could we? We didn’t even know ourselves.