Peter McKay

For the past 26 years, my wife and I have had a running argument about age. It is an argument I cannot win because the rules change every time I figure it out.

I am exactly 44 days older than my wife. Not one day more or less. Somehow, though, my wife started kindergarten a whole year ahead of me, therefore graduating one year earlier — I suspect she was a child prodigy, or I was a slow kid. (I was not, as my kids have often theorized, "held back.")

When we met in college, I was a freshman and she was a sophomore. While we were dating, my wife used to remind me regularly that she was a whole year ahead of me — and therefore she was much more worldly. To be fair, she was much more worldly, in that she had been to Germany during her junior year. At that point, I had only been to Florida and, as I remember, Ocean City, N.J. twice.

After we'd been married, though, she switched tactics and suddenly claimed to be a whole year younger. I was born in December, and she did not come into this world until January, technically at least, in another year. I countered by telling the kids that Mommy lied about her age. I informed them, in a conspiratorial whisper, that they shouldn't mention it in her presence for fear of upsetting her, but they were free to tell their friends.

And as we've gotten even older, aging at roughly the same rate, my wife has remained fairly youthful looking, while I now sport the waistline and hairline of a man my age, something my wife likes to point out. We've even developed a tradition — each year, the 44-day gap between our birthdays has become sort of a six-week celebration for my wife. Not only does she look younger, but for those 44 days, she is younger and reminds me almost every day.

Last year, we met a couple at a party, and it turned out that the wife was a regular reader of my column.

One night last month — the day after my 49th birthday — my wife and I came in the front door. As we do every day, she picked up the mail from the dining-room table and started flipping through the envelopes, while I yelled at the kids for leaving their backpacks in the hall.

"Bill, bill, bill … " she said, her voice droning on. Then she stopped, gasping in surprise.

"You've got mail!" she said, excitedly, slapping an envelope on my chest. From her tone, I knew it was an envelope that would make her happy and make me sad. I looked at the return address. It was from AARP, the American Association of Retired Persons.

I blinked. Surely, they wanted me, as a youngster, to find a way to help out the elderly. Maybe I could volunteer to read to some old geezer at the old folks' home. I could deliver meals to shut-ins. I ripped it open.

To my horror, it was an invitation to join. They clearly had some record of my birthday, and somehow 49 was the magic number where they officially considered me as a candidate for a rocking chair. Inside was even a membership card — laminated, I suppose, so I didn't get it all soggy when I drooled on it. I clutched my chest. My wife congratulated me in a way that really didn't mean congratulations.

The weeks between our birthdays have been a waiting game. I assumed that approximately 44 days after I got my letter, a similar letter would show up on the doorstep addressed to my wife. But it's now been 49 days and counting. Day after day goes by, with no invitation for my wife to join me in the retirement home. Each night, I stand over her shoulder, peering through my bifocals, and shuffle off in aggravation when she gets to the end of the pile of bills. She doesn't say anything, of course.

She knows that it's not a good idea to make fun of old people. They can get so cranky.

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