I was Born. Hooray!

We celebrated my birthday last week.  I decided that for me, birthdays aren't a huge deal.  I don't need lots of attention, gifts, surprises, or parties.  But I refuse to cook dinner.  Absolutely temper-tantrum-throwing-stomp-my-foot-refuse.  Randy learned this the hard way one year.  All I need is someone to make me dinner, or take me out to dinner, a few people to post birthday wishes on Facebook and I'm good to go.
I've also decided it's time for me to stop turning twenty-nine.  I've been turning twenty-nine long enough that I just can't claim it anymore, the way I most certainly cannot claim being twenty-one or any other number in the twenties.  It's just not realistic, ya know?  So I'm thirty-five and I'm OK with that, and here's why.
On my birthday, after our romantic dinner by the sea, Randy and I were walking along the beach. {Which is so cool to just go for a stroll down a beautiful beach, without kids} I told him it's time for me to be thirty-five, not twenty-nine.  He looked at me sadly and said, "I hate to break it to you, Mel, but you're not thirty-five.  You're thirty-six because I'm thirty-seven and I'm a year older than you."
I stopped dead in my tracks.
"What?"  I yelled at him.  "No way!  No way.  I thought you were thirty-six so that makes me thirty-five!  Are you sure?"
We started to do the math.  Randy even started counting on his fingers.  I finally pulled out my phone and used the calculator just to confirm what I already knew.
I WAS RIGHT!
Yep, Randy was wrong.  But he was OK with it because well, let's be honest, it happens a lot.  And now he's a whole year younger than he thought he was.

Outside the beach-front restaurant

Happy to not be 37!

I'm thinking we'll get family pics here.  It's gorgeous!