On Wednesday, I was wearing a pair of fur-lined slippers, relaxing with an espresso, vaping may favorite of eliquid, and watching an R-rated movie, when a thought came to mind: kids are shit happy. Like all the time. They run around like hamsters, ear-to-ear smiles on their faces, shoveling sand from one place to another. Some of the non-toilet-trained ones even have a mass of their own feces stuck to their butt, and it doesn’t affect their mood whatsoever.
And then I started to think about my own childhood, and more importantly, what the key differences are between childhood and adulthood.
Like most kids, my childhood didn’t involve getting shitfaced every Friday night. Not only that, but I can’t remember getting shitfaced once. And come to think of it, not one of my friends was a deadbeat drunk who slapped his wife around and rocked up to work on a Monday morning stinking of the weekend’s Jack Daniels and cokes.
We were kids, and we were happy.
So what’s changed now that we’re adults? What are the other key differences apart from we feel that the shit we do during the day should be punctuated with drugs and or booze, maybe with a hooker or two? We’re older, obviously. We can no longer do cartwheels. And we’re forced to pay bills and provide things in the absence of our parents doing so. We may have a bum left shoulder, or our dreams may have been crushed by the reality that we’re just not good enough to achieve them.
But can we achieve the same level of happiness in adulthood as we did in childhood without getting out of our minds on Belgian beer or laboratory-grade crack cocaine?
This summer, I set out to find out if it’s possible, and the results will most definitely not surprise you.
In interest of science, I went on long walks and even longer bike rides, stopping off at places to get icecreams, go swimming in lakes, and hop up and down on some dude’s trampoline while I hoped he wasn’t in, and I had a hell of a time. And not in the way I enjoyed the daytime stuff I did when I was an active alcoholic and when I knew I’d get shitfaced afterwards: nursing a hangover, half-smile on my face, thinking that this is a pretty a good way to kill time before I can get back on with entertainment I’d deemed appropriate for an adult.
During this summer, I came to realize that all that stuff I did as a kid to fill the long summer days is just as fun as a thirty-something with a bum left shoulder, who has put his own food on the table and has a mortgage.
Somewhere between then and now, I’d forgotten how good you feel doing all that shit.
I’m sure it wouldn’t have been as much fun with a diaper around my ass filled with my own piss and shit, but you get the point.
There’s a kid still inside you, like Michael Jackson had, but in a good way. You just have to quit booze and drugs to rediscover that smiling lunatic. That and put down your iPad or iPhone.
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