My husband is 22 years older than I am. If I use that formula (1/2 his age plus 7), I fall short by four years. Oh well. I’ve never been one to conform to any particular set of standards.
We got married two years ago after dating/living together for a total of three years. He hadn’t been married for 14 years, and hadn’t planned on ever getting married again. There was something about the way we clicked and the way our kids clicked together that made marriage such an obvious next step. He proposed to me, and three months later, we discovered we were pregnant. The baby has been the biggest blessing for my husband and me and for our kids, who now have someone in common.
The simple fact is, I love him and he loves me. We are in love with each other. He is not a substitute for my dad. He doesn’t try to assert his “authority” as “the older, wiser man.” I am not, nor was I ever, a sexual conquest for him.
Our age difference is a non-issue unless we can find some amusement in it. And there is a lot of humor to be found, trust me. He’ll joke that we went to McDonald’s for our first date so that I could play, and I’ll turn around and say that the only reason I married him was for his AARP membership.
I look much younger than my 31 years. I was asked to show my ID once when we were shopping together in order to purchase a R-rated DVD. We had a good laugh about that one. Neither of us is sure exactly what the clerk was thinking this old guy was doing standing next to me. 
We often talk about our “average age.” We can’t wait until someone, someday asks us, “So, how old are you guys?” just so we can say, “We’re 42!” (or whatever our average is at the time we’re asked)
In the last two years, we have discovered that there are four other married couples who share a 22-year age gap in our town. Once in a while, we get together with one or more of the couples and we’ve found that they are just like us: a couple of people who fell in love with each other minus all the preconceived notions that age is anything but a number.