A friend at work wished me a happy 29th last week, knowing full well I'm not turning 29. He said it with kindness, but I don't believe in minimizing my age. These are my 36 years. It's not a spectacular life, nor is it ordinary. It's mine. It's me. I've climbed the Spanish Steps and the Grand Canyon. I grew those three kids inside me. I've consoled a friend. I've found the right words to say. I've overcome a dozen fears and developed a dozen more. I've celebrated. I've failed spectacularly. I've gone to sleep and woken up and planned for what comes next.
I could live to 72, which makes this my halfway point, or to a hundred, which makes me barely a third of the way, or I could die in a car accident this weekend, which I hope is not the case but I don't want to die believing in less than my full sum so this is me, a 36-year-old.
I think birthdays are for celebrating not just another year on this planet but also all the potential that the coming span of time (however long or short) might bring. So here's to 36! It's going to be a good year.