Forty is coming. My birthday is less than two weeks away. A milestone.
When did that happen?
I’m typing this while playing my favorite episode of Jim Henson’s “Bear in the Big Blue House,” the episode called “Bats Are People Too” where all the characters meet Benny the Bat. I suppose I’m not supposed to like kid’s shows, but I still love “Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends” and everything Scooby, just like I did when I was a kid.
I’ve observed that “growing up” seems to mean for many folks that you cast aside all sense of whimsy and wonder. Growing up means no longer being astounded by what you can do with Legos. Growing up means no longer getting thrilled senseless about wizards or pirates or vampires or jumping up and down when your favorite song plays. Nope. No thanks. I can be all business when I have to be, but on the inside, I’m clamoring for jeans, tshirt and sneakers and a little bit of fun. I believe in Halloween and happiness and laughter and glitter and glue and being stupid.
Cheers to my next 40 years of mature childhood.