I turned 35 this past Friday. I spent the day at work and had lunch with some coworkers who were none the wiser. For dinner, we went to Souplantation, which is the kids’ favorite restaurant at the moment. I don’t mind Souplantation much – I actually like eating there since there’s quite a variety of food and if I’m smart with the selection, it can be fairly healthy. The kids actually like going to Souplantation for *their* birthday, so it’s a win-win for everyone (except Souplantation, because we always use coupons and we never pay full price).
I really don’t care for celebrating my birthday. It’s nice that some friends and family remember my birthday, but really, what matters is that I was able to spend another year alive. That’s what it boils down to.
When I was younger, celebrating my birthday was one of the most important events of the year. I got presents. I got called out during school. I had people who never talked to me come by and wish me a happy birthday. Now, it’s just, ‘meh’.
I mean, I still care, but it’s different. I don’t need public affirmation that I’m older. I don’t go around and get free drinks at bars. Disneyland doesn’t care about my birthday anymore either.
Maybe it’s also because my inner curmudgeon is slowly starting to be an extrovert. It’s slowly worn away the dry humor layer and the cynical layer and sarcastic layer are letting Abe Lincoln’s face be completely visible (that’s a tire tread checking trick, in case you didn’t get it).
Whatever. 35. It ain’t the new 21. It’s waking up and tackling life and doing it over and over again. It’s fighting every battle no matter how big or small and being ready for the next one. It’s using 35 years of experience towards whatever comes next.