Little Man

“Hey, hon, how did it go at the doctor?”

“I’m only five foot four and a half.”

My husband stood there, dropping his powerful shoulders while holding his hands
like serving trays, and his knees bent, quite the simian effect.

“Didn’t you tell them you were five foot six?”

“Yes, but the nurse helping me just gently shook her head.”

“Aww, it happens, part of the process, I’m sure I am shrinking too.”

I patted him on the back, one more indignity of getting older. We always say getting
older, never getting old, or simply being old.

I didn’t care if my husband was short, I was one of the invisible elderly. I bought
expensive French flats and colored my hair, ignoring my wrinkled cleavage and
corded neck. I’d been sticking my tongue out at myself in the mirror for years, and
now for good reason.

“You’ve always been the sweetest thing!” he said, grinning at me, he still had a
lovely smile. He, too, was telling only the partial truth, we’d been doing this dance
for 26 years. It was the second marriage for both of us, the one we called happy.

Just yesterday morning we were snuggling together, waiting for the coffee to
brew, when I saw a protruding vein in his chest; the actual reason for the doctor
visit was his high blood pressure. His soft chest hair was still the reddish color of his
youth, his calves as shapely, but the vein put me off my game.