Day twenty-three

When I was in third grade or so, I thought “23” was going to be the perfect age. I’d be out of college, a successful adult in the world, driving my Maserati or whatever I thought was cool — but not that cool — as an eight-year-old, and living the good life as the founder of Sholin Industries, whatever that was going to be. Business!

Maybe that was the year I wanted to be “a businessman” when I grew up, which no doubt led to grandparents telling me I should go to Harvard, because that’s where you go to become “a businessman.”

I ended up with a Harvard sweatshirt, and it was great.

Was that the same year I wanted to be a lawyer? Because that’s where you go if you want to be a lawyer. And of course, as my own children have entered the “debate every suggestion with ten minutes of pedantry” phase, I wonder out loud if suggestions from adults that children “would make good lawyers” are perhaps no less than 97 percent in jest.

I had a busy day, didn’t check the news much, and only now in the evening read about a shooting today in a bank in my home state. This is the moment where I’d like to check Facebook on my phone to see if my friends and family are all fine — although I’m not sure how useful FB would be for that — or really, to figure out whether I know anyone there.

When you grow up in Florida, every Florida Man story is an opportunity to worry about whether you know the weirdo in question. Usually, you don’t.

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