Today marks another anniversary of my 35th birthday. I don't always celebrate the same anniversary, but 35 sounded good for this year.
I am not exceedingly vain or morose about the passage of years. While some parts of me protest getting out of bed in the morning, my mind still views the world from a youngish point of view. Mind you, I have bills, children, and a number of other responsibilities that I do not shirk - but I am not a stuffy old grouch.
For instance, Friday night, while cringing at the noise level, watching the Cub Scout Pinewood Derby, and praying that my kid's car wouldn't be last (again), I made the astute, and youthful, observation that the event could be markedly improved by a few cold beers. I hold no hope that youth organizations will embrace this concept, so I really need to plan better and pregame these sorts of events.
As my children range in age from second grade to junior in college, I have many years of youth-associated activities to take in. The homebody tween and sullen teen in the middle provide whiplash inducing changes of perspective. But, I still have a few years of papier mache volcanoes and learning to write cursive before I start to bemoan the loss of a real kid in the house. Of course, the spread in age could potentially provide for grandchildren coming along right as my youngest eschews the trappings childhood. Or at least that is the justification I use for hoarding baby clothes and toys.
I don't mind the number today, though time seems to be passing much faster than it did when I was 25. I have long said that I look forward to hitting the magical number and aged appearance that will allow for me to show my true grouchy-and-brutally-honest nature, and get away with it.