When I was a kid, I thought that I’d know everything when I became an adult.
Either I haven’t become an adult yet…
or I was wrong.
Most “kids” I knew seemed to share the same expectation of age and experience – that we’d no longer say the wrong things, stick out for the most curious of reasons, or act like a goober.
Most adults I know seem to share the same wonderment…“how come I’m stuck with the goober within?”
“Keds” and “floods”
may no longer make up our wardrobe choices,
we get to choose what comes from our lunchboxes
rather than contend with the mystery meat we were given
and we no longer have to ask our dad to drive us to the movies with our “date” –
we get to lose our own cars in the cinema parking lot.
Though now with age, mortgage, and bills to pay
we don’t run from our wedgie-giving brothers (much) anymore,
we do feel like frauds when promoted
we blush so much that it melts the monitors at our desk
and cannot make eye contact with the most amazing eyes in the building.
At home, we don’t have it together,
and leave our bedrooms strewn with a laundry load’s worth of clothing.
“Work” finds us saying the wrong thing
to the wrong person
at the wrong time
while one of our batgirl socks is stuck to the back of our spiffy coat
until someone tells us about the hanger-on about the time the quittin’ whistle blows.
We’re still caught singing loudly in the car with the windows down,
making accidental crass noises in church,
and needing a kleenex at the most inopportune times.
Such is our lives
most everyone’s “life”
being saturated with a wealth
Let’s face it
Gooberness is the cost of breathing
except for those rare beings who are exempt
The good news
we can cut each other slack
and try to compassionately and subtly
point out the errant underwear peeking from beneath our friend’s jeans.
The better news
we can cut ourselves slack.
Still searching for the North Star.