36

I remember when I was a kid, I thought that 36 was the perfect age.  My mom was 36 and she was perfect. Everything about her was just right and I couldn’t wait to turn 36 and be just right too.

And now I’m here.  I’m 36.  I like it so far.

Craig sort of pulled out all the stops with the birthday gifts this year.  He took me to Chipotle for dinner.  Then we split a delicious cupcake in his office and he let me sit in his chair and he sat in the chair for visitors.  Then he surprised me and took me to see Book of Mormom.  OMG, people.  I could talk for days about every little theatrical device they used to my complete and utter delight — the clap on clap off pink vest alone were worth the price of admission.  Oh yeah, he also gave me an iPad. What the what?!?

This is not really the gift-giving M.O. in the Thompson household.  We do not do this.  We do not expect this of one another. In fact, I asked him how he was going to top this birthday next year.  He said he’s never EVER going to top this birthday again so to just not even think that way.  I’m sure he was just kidding.  I bet he’s taking me to Hawaii next year.  (You all know I’m making a joke.  But he’s reading that and pursing his lips and shaking his head with worry.  We ask each other what percent of that was real and what percent was joke?  Hon, that was at least 50% joke.)

It was awesome to be on a date with my husband last night and do something extravagant and outlandish. We had so much fun together and I’ll always remember that night.

I had a high bar for 36.  And so far, it has not disappointed. I don’t feel perfect.  In fact, a lot of the time (not all, but a lot) I feel like a selfish, bratty, overemotional lady who needs a lot of work on her physical appearance.  But for some reason, I’ve got a few people who find me just right anyway.  And for that, I am extremely grateful.