There’s a store in my town that sells all kinds of offbeat stuff.
From wooden puppets and those smelly latex masks for children, to silver batons and pink pompons – spelled that way – for adults, you never know what you’ll find there. It’s always a place of fresh, quirky joy. A place of excitement for the under ten crowd, and especially so for those of us considerably over sixty. I guess we have lots in common, we two age cohorts.
That’s not surprising I suppose. If you can’t become a child again by the time you reach sixty, maybe for the first time, it’ll likely never happen. There’s always a perfectly reasonable, middle-aged, necessary excuse to remain sober and diligent and boring.
So in between tomorrow’s phone calls, the never-ending to do list, and my next insomnia-defeating business meeting, the one that I can’t escape, I’ll find a moment or two to re-imagine myself as a ten year old.
A nerdy, unreasonable, formidable, forgiving ten year old child.
Sure, it wasn’t all fun and games back then. But never once was I neurotic about money or constancy or the love and attention of those who surrounded me.
They were always a given.
Maybe I’ll stop by that store today and pick up one of those smelly latex masks for tomorrow’s 8 o’clock meeting. Or a wooden puppet. And maybe even a silver baton or two.
Now that’s quirky.
Image Credit: Pixabay