Middle-Aged, Middle-of-Nowhere Birthday

My 33rd Birthday was my Crucifixion of Jesus Birthday, identifying myself with my Lord at the time in his life in which he was generally presumed to have been crucified and resurrected.

My 34th Birthday was my Kirby Puckett / Walter Payton Birthday, remembering two of the larger-than-life childhood sports heroes who wore the number 34 and reflecting upon the three of our accomplishments by each of our own 34th birthdays.

Birthday Party Booth Collage

My 35th Birthday was my Presidential Birthday, celebrating my last year on Dutch soil with a facetious fanfare to my Constitutional eligibility for election to the office of President of the United States of America.  The occasion was especially memorable because of a fabulous party featuring a Photobooth with Friends.

But what is my 36th Birthday supposed to be? I’ve been thinking about this all day, and I still don’t have a good numeric association on this one! It just feels like a Middle-Aged, Middle-of-Nowhere Birthday.

That might sound kind of sad-sack, but I’m actually OK with that.

Since Tuesdays are kind of crazy days, I celebrated with my family last night — and I was really touched by the gifts that they got for me: a special shiny rock plucked from the Cuyahoga River, a hand-drawn family portrait, a front row seat to a pantomimed NBA game (right in my own boys’ bedroom!), and a super-cool GPS-enabled watch to help me train for my half-marathon. Today, then, was just a normal Tuesday. I spent the day with friends, but it never felt quite right to pronounce a party for myself on the spot. Especially with this being my first year of celebrating my personal holiday back on American soil, I didn’t want to be a Birthday Announcer.

So I just enjoyed a regular Tuesday — and rejoiced in the fact that I have a good life, where regular days are good days. 36 may be middle-aged and kind of in the middle-of-nowhere… But at this stage in my life, that’s a pretty good place to be.

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