I managed to convince Tim to binge watch 4 episodes of Homeland with me over the course of Valentine's weekend, which was a win for sure. Not that there's anything romantic about Homeland, but I'm currently obsessed with and I want to get as far into it as possible before I leave for Armenia.
Another weekend treat was that Tim got an extra short haircut, which left him looking about 25 years old. I knew he was young looking when we met, but I never thought it would be much of a problem. Remember the time we were going to an R-rated movie (as married, pregnant, minivan driving homeowners) and he got carded? Sheesh. It's no secret that I've always looked a bit older than Tim, but I've held out hope that we would eventually fade at relatively the same pace.
With all of Tim's marathon running and juicing over the past several years, I've had a few alarming experiences where I've looked over at him and seen someone who looks a lot more like Adam Levine than the Danny DeVito-esque middle-aged husband I expected.
He just keeps getting hotter.
Not that most women would complain, it's just that I appear to be aging more like Bea Arthur than Cindy Crawford, and Tim's dashing looks and Benjamin Button-like aging process are making it hard for me to coast into my middle-aged glory days like I thought I would.
At least his lack of finesse in the romance department takes some of the pressure off. Last night we were watching something on TV with Margaret (not Homeland) when he slipped a little piece of paper into my hand with a smile. It was one of those little squares from our Valentine's Gratitude Box. I assumed it would be romantic and at least PG-13. I turned aside so Margaret wouldn't see what it said, but I could have saved myself the trouble. Instead of a love note, it was a folded up Chipotle receipt. I burst out laughing as Tim frantically patted down his pockets trying to locate the note he had intended to hand me.
I die. As my brother used to say to me when I did something especially goofy:
Smooth Move, Ex-Lax.