It's taken ten years, but my husband has finally admitted his age. He's been claiming he's twenty-five ever since he was ... well, twenty-five. When he turned thirty, I told him, "You can keep that up for another year and a half, but when I turn thirty, you'd better turn thirty with me." But my thirtieth birthday came and went, and if you asked him his age, he'd still say "Twenty-five" with a sly grin.
Well, the other day, he was complaining about his arthritis, and he said "It's just not fair! I shouldn't have arthritis yet. I'm only turning thirty-fi -- oh, crap! I admitted it! Oh, no! There's no going back now!"
So his birthday's tomorrow, and in honor of the occasion, and his great (if accidental) admission, I got him a special card. On the outside, it has a shot of two dinosaurs from one of those cheesy fifties sci-fi movies, with a little speech balloon that says "Remember us?" On the inside, it says "We used to sit behind you in homeroom."