Happy birthday to my sweetheart (that’s you, Gayle). We are finally the same age again. You are still the prettiest girl I know, and the only one who will tolerate me even when I eat garlic (that’s a not so long and uninteresting story in itself). You still make me tingle in the same way you did when I first met you at the ripe age of 15, sitting at the lunch counter of the local drugstore eating mustard-dipped French fries. Today we celebrate like we almost always celebrate our birthdays, by going to work. Even though our jobs keep us 100 miles apart today, I be thinking of you. This weekend we are off on another adventure and also get to see half of our children and grandchildren. Maybe we can practice being retired, sort of.
I love you the same as always, a whole bunch (no, flowers weren’t attached to this note. Buying gifts for each other is another story, also not very interesting. We usually celebrate with trips to make sure our children have less of an inheritance and have to keep putting up with us until we die or run out of money. No, they don’t get to choose which comes first. That’s a parent’s prerogative. Let’s just say we have plans that may be considered squatting in some major cities).
Oh, in case you didn’t know or have a secret admirer who you met when at the local drugstore at age 15 and hasn’t told you happy birthday today, this is Jim, your husband.