Thirty three years.

I'm 33 years old today.  There is nothing redeeming about your 33rd birthday.  Usually I wallow in some kind of "I'm running out of time, my best years are slipping away" bullshit, but a birthday message from my in-laws snapped me out of it this year. 

Rich:

Wow.  You are 33 already.  By that age, Christ had figured out how to walk on water, raise the dead and turn water into wine. But don't feel inadequate.  He also pissed off so many people that they hung him on a cross, and, besides, he couldn't ski worth a damn.

Happy Birthday. 

Well said.  So here's to being nice enough to others to keep nails out of my wrists, and fit enough to ski better than a damn.  Hell, maybe by the time I'm 34 I'll learn to pick up my uphill hand.

May 15 in the Uintas.  The strategic use of backseat skiing is an underrated skill.