Thirtysomething

Today is the day that age-thirty jokes stop being riotously funny to Jeff (lord knows I've heard enough of them since March). Annoyingly, he's ageing far better than I am, and in another ten years will probably still look thirty.

For his birthday, his parents sent a beautiful bound copy of his PhD thesis, on paper expertly selected by his mom. It has pride of place on our bookshelf, but doesn't begin to tell the story of what went into that degree. I've been along for the ride since he first decided to pursue physics, and I've been blown away by the hard work, commitment and courage he's shown to get this far, especially during a few rough years. He's come through it all with an impressive record of publications and awards, and I'm enjoying tagging along and vicariously experiencing Oxford academia as 'doctor and the missus.'

Along the way he has built a canoe, become a great photographer, learned some Spanish and kayaking skills and become a certified scuba diver. He can pick up anything easily, and I jealously guard my editing manuals because I MUST be allowed one area in which I can be the expert. We have a dynamic of him pulling and me digging in my heels, and I would never have tried sushi, gone canoe tripping or spent a year in Scotland if it weren't for him.

We met when we were nineteen, when Jeff was a member of the International Socialists and wore big combat boots (and a moustache, which I was fortunately able to get past). We bonded one evening in a university dorm over our respective CD collections, excited to find someone else into the same bands. Total nineties cliche! We have grown up together, and I adore him more each year. I mean, really, what's not to love? He's super smart, goofy in all the best ways, and cleans up pretty good, too.

Happy birthday, old fart!