Growing up

We had the party to end all parties. Tom turned 40 and it’s time for him to grow up.  He bought e-fags last week, so determined is he that he’s quitting his rollie addiction. He got me one too. Menthol. It went down a storm at the party – everyone wanted to have a go, despite the fact, as I warned them, I am still hacking up with the remains of whooping cough, but they didn’t seem to mind. It was the novelty of puffing away in the pub – I didn’t even head outside for a real one, although I had a few back at the duplex when everyone had piled back to ours.

Tom had taken the kids to Nana Zoo’s, as they refer to Tom’s mum, following a civilised family meal with burgers and a burger cake I had made – Tom’s a fan of processed meat products – and I knew he was going to let his hair down. What’s left of it that is.

No, I’m being mean. Tom’s always had a baby face despite the smoking, and his tendency never to wear sunblock. And he’s weathering well, with a touch of silver in his dark hair, and a body that would put many a younger man to shame, particularly since he started to do press ups to impress his old school friends at his recent “now we are forty” reunion.

I am unsure how I feel about it though – being officially middle aged. You can kid yourself you’re still young in your thirties, but forty is definitely the top of the hill, if not slightly on the decline. And where Jack is headed, Jill will surely follow.

He’s always been an “older” man. I was a slip of a girl – well 22 – when I met him, eight years my senior, with corduroy trousers pulled slightly too high, city boy shirt and big toothy grin. He was a punter, natch, all star stuck eyes and grinny drunk smile, and a well padded wallet. I wasn’t stupid, although that does him a disservice. I knew he’d be the father of my children the second time I met him, and by god he’s a good one.

But he’s a goofy drunk and it took him a long time before I met in the real world for a date, but back he would come, night after night, paying my mortgage and protecting me from the strict house mistress and the leery eyes of other men.

I tidied him up, slimmed him down and got him to wear Calvins and Converse, and pretty soon, everyone knew us as a couple and didn’t bat an eyelid about the swamp from which I’d found him. He’s so nice, you see. Too nice. He spoils me, and I accordingly act like a brat.

Back when I met him, he liked his beer but never touched anything else, despite his occupation. He’s been to a fair few festivals since though, as part of my attempts to trendy him up, this 32 year old banker who I now called my boyfriend to my uni friends. But I knew last night we were in for a big one, a last hooray of youthful hedonism. The sort of night where I do the splits, although I’m getting rusty and Tom flirts with all my pretty friends with a massive grin on his face. A night which lasts till dawn with a collective of people too young to be his mates drifting out by morning.

I woke up next to ‘never say no’ Kate, still in last night’s makeup and top. She’s a proper milf, all Gisele cheekbones and wild honey hair, and it’s a standard joke that she’s the third person in our marriage, although, not like that, though Tom definitely would.

There was no after party debris to speak of, however. Tom likes a clean before he gets sober, and as I stumbled upstairs to make tea it was spotless and kid ready, so we could spend the rest of the day in bed dozing it off over bacon sandwiches and slightly grubby sex.

Yes, nine years on, and we still do it, although I won’t go in to detail coz I know my work colleagues like to have a nose… but we’re pretty relaxed about the state of our relationship  which is friendly more than passionate, although I love his bones as he has always loved mine, whatever he allows me to get up to.

So this is a tribute to my middle aged husband, superhero dad, best friend and strip club rescuer. You saved me, and if that means in some ways you are like the dad I never had, well, who gives a shit what other people think anyway. You’re amazing. Just not so much when you’re off your face.