I admit that maybe it wasn’t the most ecologically friendly thing, lining my pockets with Ziploc bags almost every night. My mom probably went through a box a week. Ok, maybe even that is an exaggeration, but it was a long time ago. I have trouble remembering…
Anyway, I did it for a good cause. At least, that’s what I’ll tell you. The dog ate well anyway. Besides, if I didn’t line my pockets with plastic bags, those sautéed beans would have stained my shorts. If it wasn’t the beans, it would have been the steamed broccoli or the carrots or the asparagus. Ewww…the asparagus.
But not the corn. I liked corn.
And like I said, the dog ate well. Whatever I hid from the evil chef who was trying to kill me with that vile gruel I gave to the dog. The dog didn’t seem to mind. I mean, the tail kept wagging anyway.
But it wasn’t just the toxic waste that was served up every night. It was the brainwashing, mind control too. You know…chores? Dusting, vacuuming, picking things up off the floor? I mean, really? I have to overcome the built in engineering defects of GRAVITY?! If my shirts were meant to hang weightless in my closet as if I lived in a space station, I would be living in a space station!! Needless to say, I didn’t win that argument.
To be clear, I’m still convinced that “chore” is Latin, meaning “slow death”.
Saturday morning was like a furlough. CARTOONS! I had perfected the art of watching the television at such low levels so as to not wake anyone that I felt bat-like. Like it was a super power. Add a pair of footy pajamas and a blanket tucked around the neck and I could sit in near silence for hours pretending I was scanning the airwaves looking for felonious coyotes and tom cats. Even a wascally wabbit now and again…
Ironically, though, I preferred to be outside. Ironic in that each day I had been anticipating the week’s end so that I could do nothing but sit in front of the television. But when you have a pool with a diving board, who wants to be inside when you could be outside learning to fly?
Still, anything to not be told what to do. I think “parent” is a Latin translation as well, but I can’t tell you what it is. After my recent observations concerning the feline conspiracy, I’ve been hearing funny clicks on my phone. Let’s just say…I’m not alone.
The truth is, I refuse to grow up. Sure, I’ve got responsibilities now, and I’m allowed to do some things as an adult that I couldn’t do as a kid, but I’m holding on. Not that I want to be that fifty year old man-child, but I hold on to little moments. Dancing in the grocery store, jumping down steps, playing in the surf. I’ve learned to like beans and carrots and broccoli and even asparagus. I guess my mom wasn’t trying to kill me after all. I still sneak a little leftovers to the dog, just for old times sake.
I laughed and snorted the other day and the water I had been drinking nearly shot out of my nose. I began to laugh even more. It was the greatest feeling ever! Well, once the pain of a liquid shooting out of my nose subsided.
No, I don’t think I’ll ever grow up. I still think “chore” is a dirty word (see what I did there?), but I don’t like living with Sasquatch sized dust bunnies either. I guess it’s a give and take.
I know that I’m staying young and having fun, regardless of my age. I feel great and happy, and “play” is still constantly on my mind. And when I have the remote and I’m bouncing between channels during commercials and my wife gives me that look, I know that little kid is still there inside me.
I can’t help but giggle…