Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: THURSDAY, October 28, 1993 TAG: 9310280061
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: 1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: Beth Macy
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
"Do you realize there's a guy pitching in the World Series who's younger than I am?" he asked, the white glow of the TV set highlighting the character lines beneath his eyes.
No, I said. I hadn't stopped to consider that.
"I guess that means I'll never pitch in the World Series," he announced, all glumness.
Then he flipped off the TV midgame, flipped on the alarm clock, and settled in under the down comforter. It was quarter past nine.
Turning 30 can wreak havoc on a man's psyche. Or - should I say - a [ital]boy's[nonital] psyche.
For I believe there are two kinds of guys in this world: There are men.
And there are boys.
Because my husband fits into this latter category, I have no doubt he'll snap out of his pre-midlife slump, the World Series crisis notwithstanding.
Take the month of October, for instance. While the men of this world are puttering away the weekends cleaning out gutters and raking leaves, the boys are busy carving pumpkins and sneaking into the Halloween candy.
My husband carves a mean jack-o'-lantern, would sooner jump in a pile of leaves than rake them, and can't wait till our baby arrives this winter so that next Halloween he can actually go trick or treating again - without shame.
It was four years ago this month that I knew I was falling hard for this boy, four years ago when we first started dating and he volunteered to overhaul my old 10-speed bike, tires, brakes and all.
I've always been a sucker for boys, for guys who'd rather scream down Mill Mountain on their bicycles than cruise down it riding the brakes of their cars. I knew I'd met my mate for life when I saw him sprawled out happily beneath my two-wheeled clunker - with not one, not even two, but three different kinds of bicycle grease all over his hands and clothes.
That year we went to a Halloween party dressed as the original boy and girl, Adam and Eve. We stapled fig leaves to our underwear and then proudly ventured out - until the leaves started to shrivel, extending the post-serpent/nakedness metaphor a bit too far.
Our good friend Rick is another example of all-boy charm. He's 42, but it doesn't stop him from piloting airplanes, skiing down vertical mountain slopes or fiddling with his numerous junk cars for hours on end.
His wife, Becky, and I are lucky to get a word in edgewise when we're all together because the boys are too busy comparing boy-toy notes (mountain bikes, ski equipment, beer), guffawing and competing to see who can tell the most wildly exaggerated stories.
I admire their free spirits, but I'm a little jealous, too. I think it's easier, more socially acceptable, for men to be boys than it is for women to be girls. Besides, dolls were never my thing, and frilly clothes were always way too constricting.
My mom likes to tell the story of my oldest sister's high-school graduation, when I was 4. My grandma, who worked in a fancy dress shop downtown, had brought me a fancy dress from the store to wear to the outdoor ceremonies. A pale green chiffon thing with ruffles, the dress was dry-clean-only - a rarity for our family - and very expensive.
I stole the show at my sister's graduation by turning somersaults down the high-school hill. Grandma had a fit because I was ruining the dress with grass stains, but Mom let me keep on rolling, figuring she'd never be able to get me to wear it again anyway.
I'll be a mom myself, if all goes well, by the time I turn 30 next year. And already my hair has more salt than pepper in it.
At a recent conference, a 40-ish woman saw my name tag and gasped, "You look so much older in person than you do in the paper!" Less than an hour later, a woman in her 70s saw my name tag and said the exact opposite, which made my day.
I'm not too worried about aging, though. Living with an all-boy type keeps me young.
Last year at school, one of his eighth-grade students asked him, "What happened, did you get up late?" No, said my husband, who was just having a Bad Hair Day.
Then the student delivered the lowest of blows: "I thought maybe you put your hairpiece on in a hurry this morning."
To which my husband - whom, I should emphasize for the sake of my marriage, DOES NOT WEAR A HAIRPIECE, EVER - responded by cracking up.
Laughter can get you through almost anything. Which is why I think he'll get over the hurdle of turning 30, no problem.
If all else fails, we can always put on our best clothes and run out to the back yard, where there are lots of leaves and a hill. I figure we can roll ourselves silly, turning somersaults under the peach tree, laughing till our stomachs hurt.
\ Beth Macy, a features department staff writer, was asked recently by a reader: "Why is it you're allowed to write slice-of-life columns when you're not nearly as old as Ben Beagle?" Her column runs Thursdays.
by CNB