Moose becomes a ‘sir’
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As it turns out, my parents were right. Sitting too close to the television can damage my eyes; nose-picking is bad; showers and naps are good; and the toilet seat should always be put down.
I’m lying about that last one. I love leaving the toilet seat up almost as much as I love eating cookies and ice cream for breakfast. Are either of those two things proper in the eyes of a conservative parent? No, and I wouldn’t advise doing them at the same time, but they are the last vestige of my childhood. My Alamo, my final act of rebellion against the ever-encroaching and horrifying reality of adulthood. At least, it used to be.
In all seriousness, I may have already crossed the invisible line between childhood and adulthood. This realization came without warning while I interviewed a young man at last week’s Pioneer Days rodeo. He’d just stepped off a bull and had taken a nasty fall, so my first question was to ask if he was alright. I don’t know if anything could have readied me for his reply.
“Yes, sir. I’m alright, sir.”
I swear to you, I nearly turned around to see if there was an elderly gentleman standing directly behind me. Sir? Wait a minute; hold the phone; stop the presses; what? When did I become a “grown-up”?
I waded through the mild shock and numbness just long enough to feign a smile and offer a half-hearted chuckle.
“Come on, buddy! ‘Sir’ is my father; my name’s Daniel.”
“Yessir. Err, I mean, Daniel. OK, Daniel.”
I don’t remember what we spoke about from that point. I know I did the interview because I’ve got the notes to prove it, but truth be told, I was no longer there. I was miles away, years away, deep in the past and reliving the same memory over and over again.
I’m sitting on the floor of my childhood home. I’m about 10 years old and watching a Nascar race with my parents. I’m eating a PB&J sandwich with Cheetos. It is delicious.
“Mom, when will I be a grown-up? I want to do grown-up things like you and dad.”
“Like what, sweetheart?”
“Like stay up late and drive cars and have grown-up talks.”
She smiled and gave my shoulder a squeeze. “Don’t be in a rush to grow up, Dan. It will happen when it happens.”
Like most kids, I didn’t listen. I wouldn’t say I wasted my youth, but I was certainly more concerned with reaching milestones as quickly as possible and less concerned with paying attention along the way.
And now, 13 years later, I was suddenly an adult; forever marked as a ‘sir’ in the eyes of the youth and suddenly wishing I wasn’t.
I’d been trying to come to terms with it all weekend, but nothing seemed to reconcile my doubt and worry. It might sound strange that being labeled as an adult worried me so, but think about it – when you were a kid, didn’t you automatically assume all adults knew what they were doing? Didn’t you see them as a wealth of knowledge and wisdom? This was in the days before smartphones and Google, so if you were a kid and you wanted to know something, you simply asked the closest adult.
Only an adult knew why the sky was blue, if fish could smell, and how long chewing gum took to digest. They seemed like they had it all figured out, as if one day you were handed a pamphlet with the correct answer to everything, and this was the day you became an adult.
I was mulling this over Sunday night when my roommate came home and we started up a polite conversation. We’d been talking about something or other when I mistakenly referred to him as being in his 20s.
“I’m in my 30s, man. I wish I was in my 20s, that would be nice. I miss those days.”
And there it was – the answer to my head-throbbing, heart-racing, knee-bending question. Why did everything seem so much better when I was a kid? Because you’re not a kid anymore. When I’m 30, I’ll wish I was 20. When I’m 60, I’ll wish I was 50 and so on and so forth. You’ll always want what you can’t have, so what’s the solution?
I’m sure it’s different for everyone, but for me it’s staying 10 years old where it really matters, in the heart. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a PB&J sandwich to eat and a toilet seat to leave up.
Oh, one more thing: I still have no idea if fish can smell. If any grown-ups out there could shoot me an e-mail, I’d appreciate it.
