Andrew turned thirty one today.
He marked the momentous occasion by plucking out a freakishly long gray nose hair, and then ran downstairs to show it to me before threatening my life if I blogged about it.
He also flew a vintage airplane from World War II.
I should mention that the latter was my idea, even though he has no actual flying experience, and that at the last minute I realized the complete and total absurdity of my gift and was like, "Look, if you crash that thing and kill yourself, then just know that I. WILL. KILL. YOU."
This is why I'm effective at the negotiating part of what I do.
He turned pale when he slid into the open. air. cockpit. (is that not a bird to head injury waiting to happen???), and started asking the instructor stuff like, "Wait, you mean I steer with this ax handle thingy?" which seemed like no big deal until I remembered that IN TEN MINUTES HE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE FLYING THE AIRPLANE.
Then I started getting all morosely nostalgic, thinking about how much I've liked having him around the last couple of years, you know, the amazing sex, the long walks on the beach, holidays with the fam, movie nights with the dogs, that whole I swear to love you for all of eternity Billy Idol white wedding thing that went down. The amazing sex. Did I just write that? He can't die. Ever.
On that note, I want to wish my love The Happiest Thirty First Birthday In The History Of Thirty First Birthdays. And no more gray nose hairs.
And thank you for not making me kill you.