My Husband Has Started Acting Like an Old Man

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?”

I have to laugh. “Not unless there’s something you’ve been keeping from me for 49 years,” I say.

“I’m tired of all this ‘woke’ stuff,” he responds.

“Don’t sound like an old man.”

“I am an old man.”

And so, I adjust. I love my sweaters, but he doesn’t have to wear one. In crowded restaurants, I give him the inside seat so he won’t complain about waiters bumping into his chair. I ignore him when he tries to strike up a conversation with a neighbor’s teenage daughter who refuses to engage, staring at her phone as if that would make the gray-haired man go away.

“I won’t give her the time of day anymore,” he tells me.

“Good idea,” I say.

“Why would she want to talk to an old man?” our daughter gently says.

Yet, he’s not completely an “old man.” He can walk five miles a day, long after my arthritic knees have started aching. In retirement, he focuses on his photography, taking classes to improve his skills, spending hours outside clicking his camera and using modern, complicated technology like Photoshop.

But he still won’t wear a sweater. And so, I peel off my cardigan when he blasts the heat and consider all the time that I save by not having to store away my summer T-shirts in winter. There is one trait that still bothers me: his insistence on bounding up and down stairs, arms free, as if he’s daring old age.

“Hold onto the banister or you’ll fall,” I warn him. And when he doesn’t listen, I add, “Start acting like an old man.”

AARP essays share a point of view in the author’s voice, drawn from expertise or experience, and do not necessarily reflect the views of AARP.