Then today, like a freight train full of rhinoceroses coming out of nowhere and running you over, I turned thirty-six years old. Thirty-six? Holy shit.
Me and my stupid ultimatums.
I spent the past few years, maybe longer, frantically racing to beat the time limit like a contestant on reality cooking show. Did I get there?
But also, yes.
Like a once new car that is starting to shows its miles, shit is starting to break down. In the past two years alone I have been to doctor more times than in the past twenty combined. My ears need a hair cut while the DMZ between my hairline and forehead is rapidly advancing north. Random things ache at non-random moments and a sore throat immediately triggers fear of a tumor. A routine grocery run now includes lingering in the pharmacy aisle with genuine interest like I'm shopping for clothes.
|Does this guy look 36? Okay, ignore the gray beard, diaper bag, camera, child, and mock smile. Now?|
But I don't feel old.
Funny thing is I actually feel kinda' good. Like even better now than ten years ago.
And here's why:
|I'm genuinely smiling this time because it's the wife's turn to change her diaper.|
And on days when the working world threatens to stab my soul yet again, I get to come home to something better. A world of first steps, words, high-fives and a hot wife to share it all with.
And just the right kind of cake on your birthday.
|Chocolate + Peanut Butter + Pie for a cake = Happy Husband|
|Pie for dinner = Happy toddler. Followed by sleepy toddler.|