Gaby Soutar: My husband is celebrating his 50th - how did I end up with someone of beekeeping age?

It weirds me out to be with such a geriatric dude – I foolishly imagined that he’d remain frozen in his prime

Around this time, many moons ago, a child was born. No, NOT Jesus, that’s still a week or so away. I’m talking about my husband, who has the misfortune of having a very-close-to-Christmas birthday. This year, he’ll be turning the big 5-0. We are going to Paris for a few days so I can shower him with chi-chi goodies. It can be a pricey time for those who love him.

He doesn’t do joint “Chrim-day” presents, since they were the scourge of his childhood. Thus, I’m on double gift duty, as I must make a big hoo-haa over both dates. Anyway, I don’t know how he got so mature, on my watch.

It weirds me out to be with such a geriatric dude.

I first fell for him when he was only 19. I asked him out, and he said no. However, I eventually wore him down and we’ve been together since he was 28 years old.

We put a ring on it a few years ago, mainly so we could have a day of eating cake.

I foolishly imagined that he’d remain frozen in his prime. It seems not. This half century birthday seems more ominously significant than, say, 30 or 40. After all, when Richard Wilson was first offered the role of Victor Meldrew in One Foot in the Grave, he was only 53.

Soon, my other half will be able to sign up for SAGA magazine and he’ll get his NHS bowel screening test through the post.

In anticipation of the advancing years, he’s already switched his long-term clothes shopping allegiance from retailer H&M, and started doing most of it in the menswear departments of John Lewis and Marks & Spencer.

He has become an advocate of proper lambswool jumpers and thick thermal socks. While, in other shopping news, he is now willing to spend more than £20 on a decent bottle of rioja.

So, how does it feel to be so deep into middle age? I ask him, since I’m a youth and don’t have a clue.

“It’s okay, but I’m not keen on the pressure of doing some monumental life-changing thing to mark the occasion, like climbing Everest,” he says, though there’s no danger of him managing that, with his dodgy knee.

I’ve asked him if he’ll take time to compile a bucket list this year, but no, he can’t be bothered. The best laid plans and all that. Sometimes it’s better not to lay them in the first place.

Despite his advancing years, he scrubs up pretty well. He’s ageing like a fine wine, or a particularly pungent cheese. He’s my gooey reblochon and I’m his fontina.

As TikTok users and Generation Zs say, he is now of beekeeping age. (Apparently, this reference originates from an old Rick & Morty episode, when a character finds a friend’s dad attractive, though he’s middle-aged and tending his apiary).

In common with, say, Cliff Richard or Mick Jagger, my husband retains his skelf-like figure, with a 28-inch waist. If he wears a belt, he looks like an eel that’s been tangled in a rubber band.

He’s lucky in that he has no receding hairline, and hardly any grey hair. I do feel upset when I see the occasional strand, even though they’re smooth, and nothing like the wiry and spindly antennae which congregate on my scalp.

The teeth are okay, even though he’s not been to a dentist in about 15 years.

He takes care of himself in all the other ways – exercise, regular haircuts, not smoking or drinking much, moisturiser – but medical stuff is a hard no.

I’m not sure about the hearing. Every time I speak to him, he replies with a “what’s that?”, but I think this may be a listening impairment, since he’s been doing it for over 20 years. Usually, if I wait a beat, he’ll reply without me having to repeat myself. It just takes a while for the penny to drop.

In common with some other seniors, he enjoys grumbling loudly at whatever’s on the telly.

It’s like when you have a budgie in the same room as the box. “They can’t actually hear you,” I tell him, but I don’t think he believes me.

He’s also a master of the theatrical heavy sighs. You can hear them from the other room. “What’s wrong?” I’ll shout. “Nothing. I’m just breathing,” he’ll reply, before adding another sigh.

His nose is wet and his eyes are still inquisitive and bright, but he’s recently started to need reading glasses, and says so, every time he tries to squint at the small print on any drinks menu. Will he ever commit to buying a pair? We’ll see. I think he must be waiting for John Lewis to launch an especially comfortable design.

For now, I’ll have to be the eyes for both of us. I like to imagine that I’m a lot younger, you see.

In fact, I’m only two years behind.

It’s just that I’m strongly in denial, because the hardest thing about being 28 is realising that I’m actually twenty years older than that.

It is a memento mori of sorts, to see your partner get older. Although I can half close my eyes when I look at myself in the bathroom mirror, it’s harder to squint when I’m looking at him every day.

“I can’t believe you’ll be turning 50 soon,” I keep telling him.

“What’s that?”