On a whim…

Yesterday I was in a small country store studying chocolate labels like a pharmacist—dark chocolate, no salt—because loving someone long enough means you know exactly what they can and can’t enjoy.

While I was at the counter, the owner, the finest example of a grumpy old man that I know, and I—an apprentice grump—were grumping about feeling invisible.

You reach a certain age and the world doesn’t quite look at you the same way.

Then I glanced at the two women behind the counter and said, “You know who else feels invisible? Women.”

They smiled. Not bitterly. Just knowingly.

And I said, “When you become an old man, you finally learn what it’s like to feel like a woman.”

I gathered my purchases, turned toward the door, and announced to the entire store:

“Wait. Where are my balls?”

Malted milk balls.

Today, on Valentine’s Eve, I’ve discovered a new problem.

I now have to hide my balls from my wife.

Marriage is humbling.