When Mike and I first got together, he was a baby. I'm serious. Here's a picture of him from our first date.
In fact when we first met, I weighed exactly twice what he did. I was a college freshmen and he was a twirpy high school freshmen. He wrestled in the 72-pound weight class, and I can quote my weight from nearly any month of my life, so that's why we know. But don't worry, we didn't start dating at this point. We started dating when he was a sophomore in college, and I was a super senior. (I've written all the sordid details in these tell-all posts.)
When we finally did get together, we got many comments about our age difference. When you're old (like we are now), it doesn't seem so big, but when you're 21 and 25, it seems like a big deal. Especially when your 21-year-old boyfriend actually looks 17. Tops. I still remember my boss after we got married. Mike would drop by to see me, and she'd say, "I can't believe that's your husband! He looks like a baby!"
To be fair, he did look like a baby. Here's a vintage picture from our rehearsal dinner.
Seriously, why didn't someone put me in jail? But you have to admit he's cute.
Thus, he has gained the nickname Boy Toy and Arm Candy. But now my Boy Toy is all grown up. Yesterday he turned 29. Not quite 30. But not a little Dutch Boy anymore. He's having a hard time coping with this. I think I saw some blond hair dye in the bathroom cabinet. But at least now people may begin believing that he owns an ice cream store. Rather than having conversations like this one:
"Are you Mike?"
"The store owner?"
"Who owns the ice cream store?"
"How old are you?!"
So now I'm going to have to come up with a new name for the Boy Toy. Old Dutchie? Old Man Van? Faded Glory? Let me know if you have any good ideas.
But after all, he does have one more year left of golden youth. Happy Birthday, Boy Toy!