Sixty? No Way!

Spare a thought for Jan this week. My Better Half reaches a major milestone Tuesday: half way to matching the longevity mark achieved by the famous Parisienne wit, Jeanne Calment, who towards the end of her 120-year span – or was it 121? –famously remarked, I only ever had one wrinkle, and I sat on it my entire life. Such a role model.

The rumour I hear is that the secret to some couples’ success is plenty of separation. Husband and wife do lots of stuff independently and thus avoid wearying of each other prematurely. Indeed some devotees of this recipe for marital bliss – perhaps with us in mind – have confessed to having no idea how a Fred-and-Martha who do most everything together can possibly stand it.

But there it is, in the seventeenth year of our liaison Jan and I still find ourselves toward the joined-at-the-hip end of the matrimonial spectrum. I count myself lucky that Hawkeye gets as big a kick as I do out of ogling a gang of migrant warblers through the business end of our hoary old Swarovskis, or slogging up a mountainside, or riding the bikes along a country road. How blessed we are that at a combined 126 years of age we can still do these things.

Heck, my wench even manages to share some enthusiasm for the vocational success of Steve Nash and Joey Votto while partaking in my exultation whenever the Boston Red Sox lay a beating on the despised NY Yankess. How lucky can a guy get? Another mystery that gets some folks scratching their heads is how she’s managed to stand living with me for nigh on seventeen years. While I don’t think I’m all that bad I do admit to being disinclined to ponder the question too deeply lest I scare the bejeezus out of myself.

On Tuesday a gang of her closest Cape Breton pals will mark Jan’s 60^th at one of our favourite eateries. I expect abundant affection, alacrity and amusement, and I know there are plenty more who’d wish they could be there.