MY BIRTHDAY IS COMING UP. Last year on this occasion, my husband just gave me thermal pajamas. You know, those waffle-print, one-size-covers-all-of-you sets, with ribbing at the ankles and wrists. I took them out of the box and held them up for inspection.

In an instant my mind pinballed to every clothing gift from him over the years: On the first Christmas, it was those almost-naughty stockings from that little Swiss place; the third Valentine, that black French negligee, the tenth birthday together, sheepskin slippers; the twentieth year, the terry cloth robe; and then, last year — these.

While I was thinking, he sat nearby, smiling, blithely awaiting my response.

Is this it, I asked myself? Are we in trouble? Are we layering our way to that place where soon only our toothbrushes will touch? No way. I asked for the thermals. I froze myself silly in that negligee when we were first married.

“Thanks,” I said, giving him a coquettish wink. “They’re perfect.”

And they are. And not just because they are warm. After almost 25 years of marriage I guess it could go without saying that many things have changed. But why should it? Our family is bigger. And so are we. Here and there, year by year, a size or two adds up, and here we are. Weight is certainly not the only thing we’ve gained since we’ve been together, but it’s certainly what we see the most: Our bodies, our lines.

But just how are we to view ourselves as we age? More to the point, how much are we not supposed to notice about ourselves and the person we love? Short of shutting your eyes, how are you going to do that? As best you can. Because it’s not really about how much you see. It’s really about how harsh the light is that you use to look, isn’t it?

Well, it is in my house. But I’m lucky. My husband is legally blind. Without his glasses, he sees me as a warm pale pink smudge he can trust with his life. Conveniently, his time without glasses nicely coincides with my time without clothes.

Also, I’ve been buying lower wattage bulbs recently. Saving energy, I tell him. Saving face, I say to myself. So what if we don’t see each other clearly? I feel good to him, I look good (if fuzzy) to him and I feel good about me. Quite simply, we see each other in a better light, believing that happiness is all about the light I shed on it. My husband’s lack of focus coupled with my choice of lower-wattage bulbs allows for a lapse in our insecurities. It cuts the glare of aging, and allows for a fuller sense of love.

I know humor is nature’s way of keeping the inevitable at arm’s length. But ever since I accepted the reality of us reading in that position — books thrust out, glasses perched on the ends of our noses, side by side in the pajamas we choose, I’ve learned a lot. Mostly, I’ve learned that whether or not we choose to go quietly into that dark night, I’m quite sure that we will go dimly lit.