I've been taking a lot of crap about my gray hair lately. It started with the kids, egged on by their grandfather (who, fuck him, is nine years older than I am and barely has gray at his temples), and now my friends are getting in on it. I don't mind terribly, because the kids think they're funny and my friends aren't being dicks about it. It's more like the commiserate because they're just as old as I am, if not older, and they know this is where they're headed. If they're not already turning gray, they have the aches and pains of getting older, the health risks of rising cholesterol and weight gain, laugh lines and crow's feet. Even my beautiful wife (and shut up, I'm not being saccharine, she is and you know it) isn't happy with the fine lines starting to develop around her eyes.

Still, I am annoyed that I look older than I am. I'm 48; I look mid-fifties. When she sighed about what for her truly are laugh lines, I reminded her that I've been offered a senior discount more times than I care to consider, and a few times have been mistaken for Kevin's grandfather. While my friends are in the same boat, it's a little painful.

I expected her to brush it off; my annoyance with my gray hair and increasing number of wrinkles doesn't lessen how she feels about those few tiny lines, any more than Dack's arthritis and increasing pronounced limp makes me feel better about the gray. It's a damned vicious cycle. But she didn't brush it off; rather, she became quite serious and reminded me of when this all started.

Fifteen years ago, I looked younger than my age.

Fourteen years ago, Alex was born.

Thirteen and a half years ago, I came very close to dying from Toxic Shock Syndrome.

Thirteen years ago, in early January, Char had surgery in hopes to save her pregnancy with Rachel.

Thirteen years ago, in late January, Rachel was born nearly six weeks early.

Thirteen years ago, in March, my mother died unexpectedly.

Thirteen years ago, in April, just shy of my 36th birthday, I had a heart attack.

After that, my hair went from strawberry blond to an odd mix of that and brown, then the gray began to show. My life had stress before, but that one year took an unbelievable toll on me. I aged, and not well.

There have been serious stressors in the years since, but nothing other than Char's accident comes close to those 20 months. My father dying last year was overwhelming, but I knew I'd get through it. Char's accident was crushing and if the outcome had been different, I'm not sure I would have survived it.

She's not sure, either.

We can all make jokes about how gray I am, but she sees something different. She sees someone who was once in such shape that he had to get all his clothing tailored because his quads were so big that any pants he bought were too big around the waist in order to make the legs fit. She sees someone who ran 50 miles a week and more, who lived on Ding Dongs and Trix yet still managed to maintain sub 10% body fat. She sees someone who hit a wall and can now buy his clothes off the rack, who jogs instead of running and rarely more than 5 miles at a time now, and who couldn't get into the sub 10% body fat range now if his life depended on it.

She took charge of my diet before Kevin was even born because she was terrified, but still--she can see that age is kicking me in the balls and she's praying it's not an indicator of my lifespan. The reality is that she's nine years younger than I am and will outlive me anyway; it pisses her off that a 20 month span that began before our first anniversary may whittle away at some of the years we were counting on having together.

We had those visions everyone does; the kids grow up and move on, we retire and travel. And while no one gets any guarantees, what if she's not going to get those post-kid years?

The obvious answer is that we grab onto them now; I'm not working, and Brad would be happy to stay with the kids if we wanted to take off for a few days here and there. She has me at her beck and call right now, and I don't mind that one bit. But, as she has recovered from her accident and actually needs me less and less, I'm starting to feel like I should go back to work.

I mentioned last night going back to school and getting a teaching credential; she won't stop me, but she's not as happy about it as I presumed she would be.

You don't have to work, and I don't want that stress on us.

I'm not overjoyed with the idea of stress, but I'm also not overjoyed with the idea of not working.

She wants to know which would age me more, which would make me feel even older: working and dealing with other people's crap again, or staying home and spending a lot more time with her.

I almost didn't answer that.

I don't think I need to worry about anything turning my hair more gray than it is; that's not possible, not more than minutely. It's already 98% gray.

I probably need to worry about it falling out instead. because if I don't do what she wants me to, she might rip it out by its roots.