On Sunday I turned 33. I’m getting to the age where birthdays start to seem bittersweet – it’s great to celebrate another year of life, but at the same time I know my years are limited. I realize I don’t know how many years I’ll get, but I know it’s not all that likely to be more than 100, and I’ve already used a third of that. It’s wondrous but frightening at the same time.
Jim gave me a really sweet card listing some cute and quirky reasons that I should be really glad to be 33. It was really nice of him to notice that I wasn’t really thrilled about it and to write such sweet and cheerful things to me; he could have just given me a store-written card. It might seem silly but those words mean more to me than an expensive gift.
Am I happy with how I’ve spent the last 33 years? In a lot of ways I am. I’ve had a lot of fun, and I’ve learned a lot. I’ve always valued the experience more than having something to show for my time, and I’ve had some really great experiences. I’m happy with who I am, and with the direction that I’m headed, and I’m learning a little about myself, and life, every day. That seems like a pretty good place to be at 33.