On Aging: Talking to Myself

The Husband is thirteen years older than me -- he'll be 74 in late October. His hearing sucks in a serious way. But like every oldster who's slowly going deaf, he insists --- LOUDLY --- that he's not the problem. The rest of us are. We mumble. Every last one of us.

He's adorable but he can't hear for shit.

He's adorable but he can't hear for shit.

Okay. Whatever. (Promise me, please, that the first time the words "My hearing is fine. YOU'RE MUMBLING" come out of my mouth, some one of you will put me out of my misery.)

The upshot is that entirely too often --- as in: at least once a day --- I'll have been talking to him for a few minutes about whatever interesting thing has happened past my brain that day. And  realize that he's staring off into space. He's not heard a single fucking word I've said. Not one. 

I been standin' at the stove talkin' to myself. 

Why, yes, there are moments when I think "For fuck's sake, I might as well live alone."