Turning Thirty

Sam...sam...sam

"This turning thirty thing is in your head," my friend Laura said
"You go to sleep one night; you wake up the next day. You aren't suddenly a year or a decade older than the night before. You're just seven hours older, like every other morning."

"But time's passing," I said, "and is this it? Is the best of our marriage gone forever along with my twenties? Is a Saturday night duty shag the most we can expect?"

"I thought Sam was great in bed?" Laura asked.

"He was, he is, but the spark's gone," I said.

"So liven it up again; unleash a couple of fantasies on each other," suggested Laura. She was the kind of woman who would never let a cowboy go unnoticed in her bed.

"My fantasy is being 26 again," I grumbled.

My real problem was that not every fantasy is as simple as Laura's. Her boyfriend merely has to tip a Stetson onto his head and say 'howdy ma'am' to get her going. Cowboy movies are foreplay for her.