At 55, having fun is a lot harder than you'd think. I mean carefree, 12-year-old stuff – writing notes to friends, reading "Archie" comics, eating chocolate bars.

In grown-up terms, that translates to, well, writing notes to friends, reading "Archie" comics, and chocolate bars.

And it's a great way to get through early morning meetings at work where we focus on such stimulating topics as our mission statement every single week. Want to hear a good mission statement? "Let me sleep in!"

My husband and I try to add more fun to life, but truthfully, neither of us have really evolved much.

Saturday noon. I'm outside, in the garden, picking the Zucchini That Ate Ohio. Ted sits on a wooden chair in the middle of the open garage, shredding reams of paper in his new super shredder. We're doing autumn cleanup. From two years ago. But it's a gorgeous fall day, to be enjoyed.

"Let's take a walk," I suggest. I mean, it's embarrassing. He's sitting there like a kid banished from his own house. Which is, more or less, true. (Look, if someone was shredding very moldy, mildewy stuff in your home, wouldn't you make them do it in the garage?)

"Maybe tomorrow. I'm using the shredder!" As I move closer, I see he's beaming. I don't get too close, because, you know, mildew. He may deny it, but I know darned well this is his idea of fun. So is taking bottles and cans to the recycling place. For him, the words "fun" and "dessert" don't ever, ever come up in the same sentence. I know. I don't understand it either. Put a broken lawn mower or a computer problem in front of him, and all the cake in the world couldn't tear him away from it.

We try to find common ground for fun, which usually turns into a kind of jaunty contest.

Sunday morning. Looks a little rainy. I'm reading e-mail, sipping the last of my morning tea, thinking about getting an iced caf mocha newspaper slice of lemon loaf dreaming of a lazy ...

"I'm going running!" erupts a loud and determined male voice behind me, causing my teacup to fly upward and drench me in the process.

"It's raining," I inform him, examining my wet clothing.

"Yeah – best time to run – really fun," he grunts, pulling on his running shoes.

I hear him going out the front door, calling, "I have a house key, in case you decide to go walking." Slam. Oh, great.

Usually on weekends, he runs, and I begin walking the three miles to Starbucks. He finishes his run, then gets into the car and picks me up, generally about half-way.

I look outside. Drizzle or no drizzle, there is no way I'm going to sit this one out. And, hey. Maybe walking in the rain is fun – like being 12 again.

I am ready and out the door just behind him.

Looking back, I think maybe I should've brought my own key with me, just in case. You know, for fun. And an umbrella. Or even a light jacket. (It's so dumb that it can be warm in the house and near freezing outside. Who invented that one?) And who knew that a little drizzle could turn into huge sheets of downpour so fast, and I'm without my key and already down the road a mile.

People pass me on my fun adventure in their warm, dry little cars and I smile and try to look all peaceful and one with the world and all that crap. I walk by that nice big friendly-looking church. Families are pulling into the parking lot.

I'm just walking along, drenched through every layer, my hair, long and curly, completely soaked. I imagine parents whispering to their Sunday-dressed children, "It's OK, dear, I don't think that lady needs help. Just come with Mommy. Now! Oh, look! There's Pastor."

I keep walking. Fun like this is hard to come by.

Another full mile and 87,368 large raindrops later, I wonder if Ted is playing a little...