Last Thursday night as my birthday came to a close, I posted a picture on Facebook that was taken just a couple of hours earlier. The caption simply read, “This is 36.” The picture showed me right after I had been pie-faced by one of the servers at our favorite restaurant, Tito’s.
Indeed, it caught me by complete surprise. I had no intentions that night of being pie-faced for the first time in my life. Sure, one of the waiters leaned over to me and muttered into my ear right before they sang “Happy Birthday” and told me, “We’re going to throw pie in your face… is that okay?”
I just smiled and nodded my head, assuming he was just joking. I still didn’t take him seriously even when he told my wife, “Grab your camera. You will want a picture of this…”
Actually, I didn’t even realize what had happened until I tasted the whipped cream. My mouth just happened to be open with the pie came at me. I never even saw it happen, as the girl who did it secretly had the pie behind me.
(And yes, I just have to count this as a “fortunate accident”, as consuming whipped cream violates my vegan lifestyle…)
Even after 24 hours and two showers, I was still sort of able to smell the whipped cream. It got pretty high up my nose.
To me, that image is the perfect concept of how I interpret being 36 years old.
I had just turned 18 when I graduated high school in 1999. That means just as many years have passed since then. I am 36.
And I am proud to be 36. I embrace change. I accept the minor (or are they major?) evolutions in my personality that come along with being age 36. I gladly commemorate what this seemingly insignificant age symbolizes to me.
It’s like getting surprisingly pie-faced, then instantly laughing because you already know that it’s the little things in life that become the big things.
This is 36.