I abhor self-aggrandizing posts that applaud oneself for having survived another year, but I really haven’t gotten a chance to do one yet. So to make my hatred complete, I figure I should post this on my birthday.

That’s right; I’m thirty-five years old today.

When I became thirty-three I had made a list of famous thirty-three year olds and their accomplishments. Frankly, kind of depressing to think that Alexander the Great took over part of the known world and Jesus Christ died for the sin of the world by thirty-three (or around there anyway).

Thirty-five though is different.

You stop looking at fellow thirty-five year olds and noting their accomplishments. You’ve been there; you’ve done that. At thirty-five you check your cholesterol level and take a hard look at how life will look in another thirty years. At thirty-five you consider how fast time passed, note your savings account and try to consider a way to ensure that your family makes it there all right.

At thirty-five you look at your community and think about what you’re not doing to ensure a certain goal for it all. You think about your choices: if they’ve currently solidified your course or if there’s other options. You think about your kids—are you doing right by them?

At thirty-five you think that it’s a good time to catch up on those small things you may have missed. Call friends. Talk to family. Pick up the paint-brush again. Do some real writing. Exercise. Pluck the guitar. Teach your son the same.

So that’s thirty-five. Probably looks stupid from the either side of it (like fifty and twenty) but that’s where I am. I’m happy but, like always, can do better.