An elderly wife sat at her vanity, closely inspecting her reflection in the mirror. Poking her cheek proudly, she remarked, “You know, these aren’t wrinkles. They’re just laughter lines.”
Her husband, struggling to pull on his pajama pants, snorted. “Laughter lines? Honey, your face looks like it has the entire script of a multi-season sitcom written on it.”
She glared at him through the glass. “At least I actually laugh! You haven’t cracked a single smile since Nixon was in office.”
“That’s because I’ve been married to you since Johnson was in office,” he muttered.
“Careful,” she smirked, “or I’ll completely stop cooking for you.”
The husband sighed in deep relief. “Finally, some good news. My stomach has been holding a serious grudge against you since that ‘experimental casserole’ you made back in 1989.”
Waving her jar of face cream like a weapon, she snapped, “Keep it up and I’ll smear this anti-aging cream on you. You could easily pass for an exhibit at the natural history museum.”
He chuckled, flopping onto the bed. “At least people would pay to visit me there. You’d just end up in the lost-and-found box at the nursing home.”
The wife rolled her eyes, turning back to her reflection with a proud smile. “Fine, be bitter. But these lines simply mean I lived a life full of joy.”
The husband stared at the ceiling and groaned:
“Yeah… joy for you, pure stress for me. Every single wrinkle on my forehead has your name stamped on it.”
