Today’s my wife’s birthday. She’s 26 years old…
…in hexadecimal, that is. I’ll leave you to do the math.
Whatever base you express her age in, she’s still older than me by six months. This is a fact I often point out to her, smiling widely as I do.
She’s had a good year, one for the record books. She’s adopted two children, made a new best friend, started a successful prayer group at her church, had three large, successful parties at our house, and kept three freelance clients and three children happy almost simultaneously. She’s endured two family vacations, troublesome teacher conferences, caring for elderly parents, the largest argument of our marriage (Oy!), and a soupcon of existential angst with parental frustration thrown in. Most of all, she’s put up with me.
But it’s been a blessed year in the life of an older woman. Older, hear me?. Nyah, nyah, nyah. Older.
But she is better looking. Happy birthday baby!