dispatch 101120: thirty-two

I can’t think of a more perfect age to be turning in the year 2020 than 32. All the excitement of entering a new decade is two years in the past, Covid is still a thing (and I’m praying my coworkers don’t do a “fun” Zoom background for our meeting tomorrow), and we’re all walking around holding our collective breath until November 3rd, when we’ll finally see if we live in a democracy or under autocratic rule. So yeah, you could say that the age matches the mood. It’s not like I’m turning 33 (which has at least some numerological flair to it) and I’m not in that weird late twenties middle ground of 26-29 which are numerally boring but, emotionally, were a buckle up it’s gonna be a wild ride time. Thirty-two feels remarkably unremarkable in a year that has been anything but. I’m just 32 and that’s fine with me. So I’m gonna put my mask on, go eat some cake in the park, and be thankful I’m alive and kicking it!