Today.

Today is Mr. M's 25th birthday.
To some, this is quite young.
To me, it represents how old we are getting.

When my husband and I first met he was 21 years old.
I was 19 years old.

Now, he's 25.
I am 23.

We are still young, yes, but he's now hit the "mid-twenties" mark, and I am past the age they stop personalising birthday cards for, until you hit the big 4-0.

We are getting old.
We are getting old, together.

Next year I will be turning the same age as he is today, and that scares me to death.
Not nearly as scary as the fact he'll be 26, turning 27.

He'll be 30 years old in 5 years.
We've been together for four of his birthday's so far, and it seems like yesterday we celebrated his 22nd, so I know the next 5 years are going to creep up on me, and I'll be too old & arthritic* to run away from them.

We still have so much time left,
But the time we have is fleeting.
With every minute. Hour. Day. Year.

I thought this realisation would hit me the day I turned 23 years old.
Instead, it has hit me the day my husband has turned 25 years old.

He's going to go grey.
He's going to get wrinkles.
He's going to jiggle more than a frog in a sock.
I always wondered if ageing would affect my feelings towards him, or his towards me, but I can safely say it hasn't.

                 Happy 25th Birthday Mr. M.

You're getting old, but you are still as handsome as the day we met.


*This is a slight exaggeration. But since my husband is quarter of the way to being 100, I think I can be forgiven.