33

OK, quick poll: Have you EVER heard anyone say, "Yeah, when I'm 33, then I'll have some fun!"

No?

Me either.

It was my birthday yesterday. 33. It wasn't a day of excitement — I had to cover at work for my supervisor (no day off...) and ended up working late to try to meet a deadline. I blew it. I gave up, brain-dead, at 7 p.m. and sent the customer the file and an outline of everything I knew was wrong with it.

I got home and was hugged by two awesome little kids, and we all went out to eat. The margarita was perfect, the steak was rarest I've ever had it, the waitress took good care of us, and the kids behaved. I completely stuffed myself. It was lovely.

After the kids were tucked in, Paul came over, and I showed off my birthday present — a palm-sized R/C helicopter. We took turns flying it around the living room, and then retired to the computer, where we watched an old episode of Max Headroom Paul had managed to find on the 'net. The show has aged rather well, I think.

So was 33 excitement by the minute? Nah. Is life good anyway? Yes.

***

Perhaps to make up for all that lack of excitement (or perhaps because it seems like cool thing to do) we're talking about having a 33 ⅓ party — one third of a century, and, coincidentally, the RPM of an old record player. So, Sometime in August, bring your old vinyl, and we can gross each other out with '80s music and slam-dance until dawn.

Or at least until the babysitter needs to go home.