Spending time over the holidays with family, including a young cousin, made me think a little about how many things change between childhood and adulthood. Now, don’t leave. I’m not about to wax poetic about the blissful naïveté of youth or anything so cliché. There also will be no further usage of words containing accents or umlauts.
What I’m talking about are things I am no longer inclined to do in my “old age”. Somewhere between the ages of 2 and 25 years, I lost certain urges that, when viewed with adult eyes, no longer hold the attraction they once held. This is a little disheartening. I don’t know about anyone else, but as a child I made certain promises to myself. I considered one of these promises to be the most holy and sacred of all. As a child, I promised myself that I would eat ice cream for dinner everyday of my adult life.
I have not kept this promise. In fact, I am fairly sure that I have yet to eat ice cream for dinner even once. Six-year-old Justis would be so disappointed if he knew.
This reminds me of a terrible joke a friend’s adult brother played on us once when I was young. We were at a supermarket with him, and as we drooled our way down the candy aisle, he stopped us and said “Guys, see all this candy?”
We acknowledged our awareness of the candy with a slack-jawed nod.
He continued, “I can afford to buy one of each of these candies, and someday so will you.” We drooled some more. “But, ” he added, “when that day comes, you won’t want to eat candy anymore.” And he was basically right.
The very thought of one of my usual pre-teen candy binges makes my mouth pucker and my stomach roil out a warning against any such foolishness. Gone forever are the days of ice cream dinners. The means are there, but the motivation is gone. I once chose breakfast cereals based solely upon the value of the toy inside the box. But these days, dietary fiber is its own reward.
After a quarter-century, I am a mere shell of my former self. I can no longer spin around in circles without vomiting. I do not get up early on Saturday mornings, unless I’ve foolishly agreed to drive someone to the airport.
Tomorrow I’m eating ice cream for dinner. Then I’m going to stay up all night.
You’re not the boss of me.
Bye for now.
Sorry, I just got caught up with your recent hilarious posts and I’ve made a Comment for each one that made me giggle.
“You aren’t the boss of me” — isn’t that a Malcolm in the Middle thing? It reminds me of that silly video game phrase, “All of your base belong to me.” Or something like that.
Yes, I do so agree, kids think adulthood is so marvy. They can DO WHATEVER THEY DAMNED WELL PLEASE. I am trying hard to teach my son that he can’t live on French toast and maple syrup alone (he just learned how to make FT) and that the government will get you when you’re born and when you marry and when you buy a house and when you make an income over the poverty line and when your parents die and when you die. And then the funeral home guys will milk you for whatever you’re worth.
Is this depressing enough? I didn’t expect any of this shite when I became an adult. After all… I grew up with Oz books and Ice Cream dinners dancing in my head.
(Love your posts, J.)
The whole “you’re not the boss of me” thing didn’t come from any particular media source or anything – it’s just one of those corny universal expressions from childhood that cracks me up.
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