Today’s my birthday.

I’m celebrating it in the suburbs of Chattanooga, Tennessee. We’ve been visiting Matt’s parents here for the last few days. This is the first birthday I have ever spent in Tennessee, and I think that’s kind of cool — birthdays tend to run together year after year, so when you vary the routine a bit, it makes things more memorable.

I’m 36, and I wouldn’t say I’m thrilled about that. But there’s nothing I can do about it, really, except forget how old I am. Someone in my chorus was surprised a few months ago to find out how old I was. He’d thought I was about his age, which was 25. God bless him. May my youthful looks long continue.

Maybe it comes from eating a lot of oatmeal. Or maybe shorter people look younger. Or maybe I just act immature?

Anyway, 36 is a multi-factorial year (1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 9, 12, 18, 36), so today I can divide up my life in numerous ways. Fourths, sixths, twelfths, et cetera.

If getting older is no fun, at least I can always console myself with math.