Reason 213

My inner child. Every year at Back to School Night I joke with the anxious parents that I became a middle school teacher because I'm emotionally stunted, that something happened in my formative years to arrest my development so that I now think and act like a preteen most of the time. The moms and dads laugh graciously, clearly disbelieving the psychological insight I just shared with them, but one good, long look around my classroom would definitely show them there is some truth to my statement. Normal thirty-two year olds don't have Velma dolls and Darth Tater action figures on top of their filing cabinets. Rainbow pinatas, jars of marbles, and orange soccer cones aren't the norm in most people's work environments. As a single adult sans children I admit to making late-night runs to Toys R Us to fulfill my Candyland and Chutes & Ladders cravings. In my 20's I thought it was perfectly normal to throw bouncy balls and sidewalk chalk into my basket while trolling the Target aisles. When my best friend (hi, Steve!) started his PhD program at the University of Washington I didn't congratulate him with a Hallmark card and dinner on the Ave; no, I lavished him with over fifteen different types of Silly Putty, which in my mind is much more fulfilling than some sappy words and a meal at Thai Tom. I have a feeling, Jason, that when it comes to this Peter Pan syndrome you and I are in the same boat. Heck, you're probably the captain of the ship and I am just a lowly sailor. Since both of us are clearly kids at heart I think the next time I'm in Los Angeles we need to organize a massive game of Kick the Can and play until the streetlights come on and our parents call us in for supper. I'll have to take a breather if my hip starts acting up, though. Unfortunately, my decrepit body just doesn't seem to understand this whole "young at heart" thing. I wonder how Sinatra managed?