My husband has started acting like an old man | members only

When I cook at home, he’s become such a picky eater that he is suspect of ingredients not easily recognizable, asking with a worried look, “What’s that?” He used to eat escargot; now he’s

happy with soup every night for dinner. Is it inevitable that as we age, we begin acting like our elderly parents once did? Some people soften, while others find their bothersome traits even

more entrenched and irritating to others. As a college professor, I’m in contact with Gen Z, which keeps me updated on our youth. I teach them to write, and they educate me on their ideas

and pop culture.   Steve’s dad used to say, “There hasn’t been a decent musical since _My Fair Lady,_” implying that the theater needle hadn’t moved since 1964. When Steve and I saw

_Hamilton_, a masterpiece of the 21st century, he announced he was bored and hated hip hop. He suggested seeing a revival of _My Fair Lady_. My marriage is like a bell curve. In the

beginning I looked up to Steve, 4½ years older, established in his business career. He drank espresso like the “cool cats” of French new wave Truffaut films. (Now he drinks decaf.) He even

had a motorcycle, much to his mother’s objections and fears. His motorcycle is long gone, replaced by a safe sedan. He prefaces every car trip, big and small, with complete weather and

traffic reports. In her 70s, my mom grew concerned about driving in a light drizzle. I’d try to joke, “Car companies have now installed windshield wipers.” Each morning, my husband starts

off our day by announcing how many times he got up to pee during the night. He reports his blood pressure numbers and announces today’s low temperatures as if below freezing in January is

cause for evacuation to the Caribbean. “Put on a sweater,” I say, no longer able to hide my annoyance after suggesting it for years. Instead, he cranks up the heat once more. I’m tired of my

nagging voice, yet I can’t resist. I have to work to rustle him out the door every time we leave the house, the way I did when my daughter was a toddler. He’s looking for all three pairs of

his glasses (he refuses to wear bifocals) and chooses gloves that won’t be warm enough. For his birthday, I buy him hand warmers that skiers use. He used to ski. He buys warmers for his

socks. Our daughter privately whispers to me, “He’s acting like an old man.” She has tried to bring him into the 21st century, but she gives up after explaining umpteen times how to use

people’s preferred pronouns. I get it: it’s a different concept, and our brains are not as agile as they once were. One day, when Steve and I are alone, he asks me, “Am I a they or them?”