28 is the Perfect Age

28 is the Perfect Age

Dear God,

I’m 28. Thank You!

Thank You for all of the tidbits of other people’s lives I’ve been able to live. They have saved me time in determining my own.

Thank You for sending me on the press bus when Bill Clinton did his big tour through Washington in ’96. It was a great experience to have, once. By the end of the day, I’d heard him give his stump speech eight times and was bored to tears. My only real accomplishment was making a Secret Service agent smile. It taught me not to try being Wolf Blitzer.

Thank You for the Korean Neo-Confucianist-turned-Methodist pastor who taught me that I am not a Protestant.

Thank You for the extroverted, depressed and talkative girl who kept me as her “reserve boy.” Thank You for showing me the consequences of choosing one’s friends by breast size, and for not making me pay for it too much.

Thank You for two years in the Peace Corps to teach me that I am not Margaret Mead.

Thank You for two years working in a homeless shelter to teach me that I am not Mother Theresa. And, thank you for my psychotic but altruistic co-worker who taught me that regardless of the quality of an organization’s mission, I’ll never be happy unless I get along with the people in the office.

Thank You for the school shooting, which taught me never to try being a character from “Law & Order.”

Thank You for my large body and slow legs, which taught me never to try being Ricky Sanders from the Redskins.

Thank You for the 30-40 dogs I knew growing up, who taught me the joy of having one dog who will actually bring back your Frisbee.

Thank You for the shy, studious young woman who finished college at the age of 19. She was brilliant, but she learned about men from Jane Austen books. Thank You for teaching me the dangers of wanting a girl just for her brain.

Thank You for the crazy professor who led me up Pinnacle Peak, the top 300 feet of which are a cliff full of footholds that can be used by people with smaller feet than mine. Thank You for teaching me that it’s easier to climb up than down. Thank You for saving my life that day, for teaching me that by slow scooting, a large butt can grip what wide feet cannot, and for saving me from another expensive hobby. My Mom sewed up the shorts.

Thank You for the cheerful Cambodian boy who drew pictures of smiling people who were missing arms and legs. When I realized that they were land-mine survivors, I learned to be thankful for what you have, whatever you have.

Thank You for my current job paying bills for a non-profit too quirky to describe. Though I while away the hours typing things like “kumquat” into Google just to see what happens, I am sure someday I will understand why I had this experience.

Thank You for the former sorority president with long brown hair whom I met at church two years ago. I got such false hopes about her that when she turned out not to like me, I ran across the neighborhood to attend church at the parish with no girls in it. A lovely young woman came to help with the choir one day, and I married her.

I’ve had all these wonderful experiences, and now I’m 28, the perfect age. I know it’s perfect because 28’s divisors equal 28, see: 1+2+4+7+14=28. My next chance at this is 496.

I’m certainly glad I got to do this, especially while I was young enough to enjoy it and before I developed a standard of living. But, I want to ask You, what do I do next? What’s it all add up to? I wish all these parts of my life added up as well as 28.