After 38 years of marriage, I feel the same

Perception and self-deception have more in common than just their last seven letters.

For instance, when I look in the mirror, especially if I squint, I see the reflection of someone who’s still a bit of a boy wonder.

My wife? With our 38th anniversary a couple of weeks away, I’m not sure how she sees me. But when a guy came to the house recently collecting for a nursing home, she tried to put me in the back of his car. Fortunately, it was a two-door and I was having one of my less-bendable days.

Can’t fault her, really. She’s married to possibly the only person on the planet dumb enough to have once paid full fare for a Porter flight. Blame my “why wait, do it now” mentality, but I booked at a rare moment when the airline wasn’t running a seat sale.

My wife’s retiring in a few months, 40 years to the day from when she started as a reporter on her first newspaper.

You know time is flying when you can say “40 years” and it doesn’t sound like a long time (it seems like only yesterday that I turned 50 and realized to my horrified amazement that my age, IQ and waist measurement were all the same number).

She came, as a 19-year-old American journalism student, to work for a summer on the English regional paper that I graced with my presence. Everyone from the editor on down warned her to steer clear of me. For some reason, I wasn’t regarded as a healthy influence on the young.

Three days later, she moved in with me — it’s a point of pride for both of us that we never actually dated

We finally met when she had to wake me because I was sleeping off the excesses of the night before on a typewriter she needed. Her eyes lit up with interest when, with bleary but I like to think instinctive gallantry, I apologized and introduced myself.

Three days later, she moved in with me — it’s a point of pride for both of us that we never actually dated — so clearly there are worse ways to start a relationship. And . . . it pays to advertise. Thanks, boss.

Her parents might not have thought so when she returned to Pennsylvania with me in tow: “He followed me home, mom. Can I keep him?”

But the perception I got was that I was welcome. Or perhaps they were trying to kill me. I remember the day I arrived, her dad urging me — culture-shocked, jet-lagged and never having driven on the “wrong” side of the road — to take his aircraft-carriersized Chrysler for a spin around the block.

That was in 1973, four decades ago. But numbers are devious things. It helps if you can learn to juggle them. Never let them rest, keep them bouncing, soaring and passing in the air. Relish the patterns they form, so much more complex, interesting and beautiful than anything a youngster can put together.

Don’t think about how, sooner or later, even the best juggler starts dropping things.

In 1982, my wife and I drove from Philadelphia to start a new life in Toronto. Coincidentally, the British task force sailed for the Falklands/ Malvinas to kick the Argentinians off the islands.

We’d spent our last night in the States at her family home. My mother-in-law could hardly pour me a cup of coffee for laughing.

“You’ve gone to war over a flock of sheep!” she chortled.

The Falklands War and our arrival in Canada were 33 years ago. We’ve been in our current home for 25 years. That’s longer than I’ve lived anywhere else and I still have clear memories of the day we moved in. It’s 42 years since we met. Numbers, always numbers.

When I look at her today, except for the shorter hair (both of us), my perception now as opposed to then is not a whole lot different. She can shake me and say, “Get off that typewriter” any time she likes.

If that’s self-deception, rather than perception, I’m all for it. It’s a good reason, too, not to worry about distorted images in the mirror.

Take that from the oldest boy wonder in the business. billtaylor2@me.com