While out for an impromptu lunch with friends, including six-year-old CK and CK’s three-year-old Baby Sister, I was reminded of a couple of things.
First: I’m not twenty-something anymore.
Or thirty-something.
And not forty-something for much longer. (To prove the point, I just spent five minutes trying to get the text on this screen a tick larger so I can see what I’m writing. I think my bifocals need upgrading…)
The wider the age gap between me and those sporting single-digit ages, the starker this reality becomes.
It shows up in my self-inflicted rotator cuff injury.
In my self-inflicted plantar fasciitis.
In my self-inflicted midlife crisis/nervous breakdown. (Well, this one is one-third my fault, one-third the universe’s idea of poorly timed simultaneous plot twists, and one-third the fault of Little Miss Muse, who has me pinned between reality and writing worlds, blurring lines from time to time.)
In the restaurant, I had a little girl on either side of me, bopping around with tiny handfuls of mini plastic creatures, all about half the size of my thumb. A cat? with a head full of glitter and a horn and wings. A turtle? that looked like it had undergone some fantasy transplant surgery.
A unicorn with wings was as tame as it got. At least that creature felt familiar…
My friend confidently declared the toys to be Hatchimals. She seemed quite proud of this knowledge. I’m new to the kiddie pop culture of the last ten years, since my kids believe they are adults, and my Tiny Grand Girl has only had five months to get acquainted with Earth and is not yet “into” anything other than her bottle and peek-a-boo.
I googled the brand. Once upon a time, in 2016, Hatchimals made the news cycle when they sold out at Christmas (think Cabbage Patch Kids and Tickle Me Elmo kind of panic buying).
Basically, parents paid sixty bucks for a toy that made their kids wait before it became a toy.
Evidently, the creatures that made their way to our lunch table were from another iteration of the brand that doesn’t require so much patience.
While CK and Baby Sister began bartering for, or, rather, prisoner swapping, the unrecognizable mini plastic creatures, I excused myself to the restroom. In just moments, the left side of me will be covered in baked potato, and the right side in macaroni and cheese, and Miss Beth needed a minute.
Upon my return, I discovered CK and her grandpa had waterboarded the unicorn in unsweetened iced tea.
I’m glad I took that minute.
I spent the meal preventing the same atrocity from happening in my water, in Baby Sister’s apple juice, and in my salsa. I’m on the unicorn’s side… unless he knows where the real unicorns are. Or if he knows the whereabouts of my shipment of Magic Wands That Work. If he has insider information like that, I’ll take him out back myself and waterboard him properly in the sketchy alleyway.
As the meal progressed, I dodged starchy side dishes and ensured CK didn’t delete every photo on my phone and change my passwords.
This brings me back to the second thing I was reminded of during this lunch:
Indulging in whimsy regularly—and occasionally while covered in cheese and potatoes—might slow the aging process a bit. At least the cognitive one.
The “let's see what happens if…” kind of play. (Which, according to Little Miss Muse, is of vital importance to filling one’s very dry, cracked writer’s well.)
Take a risk. Push a button. Make a mess.
Because I’m not twenty-something anymore.
Or thirty-something.
Not forty-something for much longer.
So waterboard all the unicorns—in sketchy alleyways or in unsweetened iced tea.
Clock’s a tickin’…
