I call David “my husband.” He’s not. I think the word boyfriend is a silly word for a FOF woman to use to define her relationship with a 65-year-old man. I’m not nuts about the nouns partner, man friend or companion, either. So husband it is.
I wanted to marry David at one point in our relationship, which is over seven years old. I even angled for an engagement ring since I didn’t get one when I became engaged in 1968 when I was 21. David bought me a beautiful diamond, but I didn’t call him my fiancé. That sounded dumb to me, too.
David hasn’t asked me to marry him, but I don’t care now. We’re not going to name each other beneficiaries in our wills (my children and his children are our beneficiaries.) We’re not having children (ha.) So what’s the point of getting married? I guess you could say it would show commitment, but I think we’re pretty committed as it is. We live together and we have Rigby, our Norfolk terrier. I guess we could have joint custody if we broke up, but that would make Rigby sad. I already made my children sad many years ago when their father and I split up, so I don’t want to do the same thing to Rigby.
David and I annoy each other at times, but we get over it fairly quickly. Sometimes it irritates me that he isn’t as social as I am, or as curious, and he doesn’t like Paris. But I get over all that, too. I go out without him when I want to go somewhere he doesn’t. I went to Paris with my former husband, for instance. I also have enough curious friends and relatives to keep me on my toes.
We’re alike in many important ways. We both thrive on work, we love our children (including Rigby and Remy, our cat), and we enjoy being in one another’s company, even when we’re at the supermarket or watching Curb Your Enthusiasm and Antiques Road Show. We don’t compete with each other. We don’t play (mind games) and we’re steadfast in our loyalty.