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By Anne Bardsley

When my husband and I were first married, we talked about traveling to secluded beaches and romantic nights dancing in the moonlight. We were young and in love. Now we are old and still in love, but our conversations have changed drastically.

Now we talk lovingly about fiber, men who will chase me when he dies and my shoes. Not only do we discuss these urgent matters, my husband repeats his thoughts several times a day. He must think if he says it more often, I’ll soak up his message. Trust me, I hear him, and he’s on my last nerve. Oh wait! As I was saying, we are still in love.

Oatmeal is his constant daily recommendation. "If you have oatmeal everyday for a week, you will be regular," he professes. Fine! I agree to have oatmeal. He reminds me again at lunch. "If you have oatmeal everyday for a week, you will be regular." As I’m preparing our dinner, he reminds me once more. At bedtime, he reminded me to have it for breakfast the next morning. I am so over the oatmeal discussion!

This week we watched The Book Club movie. I’d seen it previously and laughed through it. I told him it’s a great movie and he should watch it with me. The movie is based on four women who meet weekly to drink wine and discuss the chosen book. When one gal brings Fifty Shades of Grey, everything get interesting. The women begin to notice that they need more fun in their lives.

My husband reported, "I hate this movie! This is what you’ll be doing when I die. You’ll find a handsome guy who can fly a plane and lives in a big expensive house with a pool. You’ll even get an inflatable duck to float on like the one in the movie." Funny thing is he’s the character in the movie I liked the best. I told my husband, "He reminds me of you. You flew a plane. You’re romantic and handsome. We could float on a big inflatable duck in the Gulf of Mexico," I said trying to ease his pain. He grumbled and shot back, "Seriously Anne, I’d be dead!"

The next morning he was till grumbling, "I hate that movie!" I flipped the eggs and reminded him that it was just a movie. "It’s fiction!" He sipped his coffee and said, "I couldn’t even sleep last night thinking of all the fun you’ll be having when I’m dead." I giggled. I said the only thing I could think of to comfort him and lighten the mood, "How long do I have to eat oatmeal to be regular?"

"You should have oatmeal for seven days in a row to become regular," he answered in a monotone voice, still not cheerful. “When I’m dead, you can eat whatever the pilot serves you for breakfast. I bet he’s a gourmet cook, too.”

This morning I promised to straighten up the house. He was sipping his coffee on the couch when he felt the need to count the number of shoes in the living room. Two were his; two were mine until he moved the ottoman and I won. There was the pair of sandals I’d been searching for. "Anne, how many pair of shoes does one woman need?" he asked. I knew this was a trick question, but at least he wasn’t complaining about what I’ll be doing when he’s dead. I replied, "Conservatively, at least a dozen for spring," I reported.

"I think you need some heels. You need sexier shoes," he told me.

"Before or after you’re dead?" I asked seriously. "I wouldn’t want my spike heels to pop the yellow duck float. I don’t know if airplane man can swim to save me."

"I sure hope airplane man has enough money to support your shoe habit," he continued.                  

"You’ll probably need to buy all new clothes from the weight you lost eating oatmeal. My idea, mind you!"

I handed him his plate of food and grinned at him. “You really think I’m going to lose weight? Don’t tease me with that kind of talk.”

He was almost finished eating when I said, "Come on, we’re going to the beach. I’m stopping to buy that inflatable big yellow duck. Just let me finish my oatmeal and find my sandals."

"You know you’ll be regular in just five more days if you eat oatmeal every day. Your sandals are under the ottoman."

Somehow I think airplane man might be too busy soaring the skies to take such good care of me.

— Anne Bardsley

Anne Bardsley lives in St Petersburg, Florida, with her "wrinkle maker" of a husband and two spoiled cockatoos. She's still recovering from raising five children. She is so happy she didn't strangle them as teenagers as they've given her beautiful grandchildren. She is the author of How I Earned My Wrinkles: Musings on Marriage, Motherhood and Menopause and Angel Bumps. She blogs at www.annebardsley.com.