At the beach freezing my ass off but husband needs the ocean. So do I, it turns out, but he is better at making it a priority than I am. Regardless, I am still freezing. And I also love being here. Use towel as blanket and take it all in.

He pulls up “Old Country” on Spotify and we realize how old we are. “Old” in Spotify search results pulls music from the last twenty years, and the “old” he is looking for goes back another twenty or so. I tell him to amend the search to “1970’s Country” to see whether that brings us the old we are in search of; the old that we are. Perhaps I should have suggested “Country Music for Senior Citizens”, but that seems as daunting as the AARP magazine that now gets sent to me monthly without me ever initiating the request for such material.

The husband loves Country music, and I love that about him. I find it sweet and innocent for some reason. I drift away somewhere and recall a story he told me long ago about a Reba McEntire concert he and his brother went to in their early twenties and I smile to myself…seems there were girls trying to hit on him but all he could see was Reba. Thank goodness, I think to myself, that you only cared about Reba…that left some space for you to eventually find me.

I get the same feeling every time he does something cute like that (and he would hate me calling him cute, but I don’t think he actually reads my posts so I’m sticking with cute), or I remember something cute he has done. I always want to marry him right then and there, all over again; and then I remember I am already married to him and I don’t have to marry him again. But I would, and I did; twice, in fact. And I still want to marry him again.

I don’t even know what this post is about. I am rambling and emoting and pondering life…maybe that’s what old people just do. Old people in search of older people to make them remember what youth felt like. Glory Days. Or something like that.

Or maybe it’s just what I do, regardless of the age I find myself. My mind starts drifting and being weird, and I try to jump on the wave. I go with it and see what happens; I succumb to the weirdness that is my head and all the places it wanders. It’s not always pretty but it’s always real and always me. And I think I have figured out how to love that girl; that part of me who feels so foreign and so normal all at the same time. The girl who is willing to admit that she is a wildflower that even she can’t define.

I’m happy as fuck despite the hurdles that are life, and I’m happy that I am jumping them with my Reba loving softie who tries to be a badass; “old” Country or Senior Citizen Country style. Even when I want to gouge his eyeballs out, I know that he is my safest and most honest place to be. You see, he has a front row seat to the shit show that is me and for some reason he keeps buying the ticket. A ticket that doesn’t always or often or ever offer a huge, or any, ROI.

So maybe, then, this post is about love. Or old people. Or the combination that the two offer in tandem.

And it’s Sunday. I love Sundays for the special piece of life that they offer. Dear Sunday: you are neither party day nor work day, you just are, and I feel like you deserve more respect than I have previously offered you for your place and purpose in my life. I used to want to gouge your eyes out too – every fucking week you came around, which is always – but I have finally learned the beauty of you.

Maybe getting old isn’t such a bad thing after all. Maybe we need the years to become enlightened about life. Maybe the years grow us into who we were supposed to be all along. I don’t really care either way…I’m just grateful to be in this here and now, and I’m grateful that I feel such gratitude for every morsel along the way that has grown me.

I don’t have any idea what I don’t yet know – I only know that the older I become the less certain I am that I know anything about anything.

Except, I think I am starting to understand this love thing. And I love the love I feel.

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