Today I’m 35.  Noah was promised 70 years so that means I’m exactly middle aged…So says my (older) wife the theologian this morning.

A much younger me once thought of middle age as some sort of switch, like you go to bed able to tie your own shoes and wipe yourself and you wake up middle aged and in need of a little assistance.  Turns out the first morning of 35 is a lot like the last morning of 34.  I’m still tying my own shoes and I’ve gone potty with no help whatsoever. It’s just the number that’s changed.  (That and I now say and type the word “potty” without flinching.)

I woke up middle-aged this morning and Becky still loved me. And for reasons I’ve never understood, she still thought I was hot. We laid in bed talking and laughing for a while, listening to a CD she made me of the worst versions of “Happy Birthday” she could find.  Then I got dressed.  All by myself. Then, also, I went potty. All by myself.

Then I took my (older) sister – in town for Christmas – to meet the Cuban Assassin. And I kicked 35’s butt with a very large number of push-ups and crunches.

And now I’m blogging.  I can see the screen as well as I could yesterday. The words are just as difficult to find with all the noise swirling around me in this house.  And it’s just as weird to me as always that I have anything left to say and anyone left to say it to.

Yep, the first day of middle-age feels exactly like yesterday, except with cake and a little more gratitude than usual for such a great life.

I’d like a gift from you now.  Well, from those of you older than I am (Nancy, Beth, Brian, Cristy, I could go on and on and on).  Dispense some wisdom to me will ya?  If you could tell the younger 35 you one thing (or twenty) what would you say?  What do you wish the younger you knew at my age?

I’m listening, O wise (older) ones.

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