To that she'll lift her glass, still not quite empty. Sometimes men do say mildly clever things, after all, and that's perfectly lovely to toast.

"Thirty-eight." Her sigh is rather dreamy, of course. Fondly, fondly does she remember the age of of so many threes of years ago. So young, so foolish. "And this is your masterful celebration of succeeding to avoid dead thirty-eight whole years in a row?"