A Rite of Passage
Every culture has its own path to adulthood. It could be a ritual, the end of education, or even mandated by law. Adulthood is a terrifying ultimatum for children of all ages - a strict rule that says “You are now an adult. You must follow the rules. You must act mature. You must take responsibility.” I shudder every time I think about it.
I’ve realized now, however, that my path to adulthood is unique. I have searched far and wide for what Robert Frost would call “the road less traveled by,” and I think I’ve finally reached the end of my journey without walking across hot coals or the ruling of a grand jury (and I’m fairly surprised that the latter didn’t happen).
My leap into adulthood was prompted by the fact that I can no longer relate to children born after the year 2000.
They think Star Wars: A New Hope is boring and Revenge of the Sith is the best.
The best video game system has a controller with more than five buttons.
“You can get books at the library?”
“I stay up until two in the morning sometimes.”
They have cell phones and never talk on them, only text.
They think the Twilight series is the best thing to happen since sliced bread.
None of them eat sliced bread. Just Lunchables and Uncrustables. Actually, most food has the suffix “-ables” now. I call them “disgustables.”
But the thing that bothers me most of all? Why, that’s the fact that they look at me like I have four heads when I ask,
“Hey, you guys ever just feel like digging a hole?”
I mean, come on. That’s an integral part of childhood - sitting in the dirt with a stick or a rock, digging a fucking hole. You think you can reach China. You find all kinds of stuff. Worms, cool rocks, more sticks, dirt. And the best part? You get all dirty.
Why isn’t that a part of childhood anymore?
