Some days, it feels like adulting is a trap filled with crap. Oh, to be a kid again; carefree exploring, no bills to pay, and eating cheese without exploding. Oh, and knees that don’t snap, crackle, and pop when I move.
We can’t be children again on a permanent basis, because eventually it will be tax season again and we’ll run out of clean clothes. Also, people might think we finally nosedived off the deep end and send us on an all-inclusive trip to the funny farm.
But some activities can transport us into childhood-like wonder for a while…
Maybe it’s a tree fort that you had to tackle your adulthood-induced fear of heights to get into. Maybe it’s a sheet or cushion fort that you made because you just moved into a new house, you ran out of beer, and you made a fort to hide from your wife because she immediately wants to unpack everything down to the forks and throw pillows.
Or my favorite, a cardboard-box fort that you built in the utility closet at work because you simply can’t deal with the Quarterly BlahBlahBullshit report right now. And now it’s your secret new headquarters for your new entrepreneurial one-person corporation of taking feet pics to sell on the internet.
Whatever type of fort you construct, it’s a great way to hide from responsibility for a while. But bring snacks, so adulthood doesn’t find you when you pop out for a Pop-Tart.
I don’t know what happens when we talk to babies, but our brains turn to mush, and we start babbling like the babies themselves. I can have a full-on existentialist conversation with my dog, but put a baby in the room and suddenly I’m goo-goo-ga-ga. My dog looks at me like I just burned through my last brain cell.
The exception to the dog rule is if it’s a puppy. Then it’s a dog and a baby, and we turn into a canine-induced brain pile of mush.
Anyone who doesn’t turn into a toddler when bubbles magically fly through the air is dead inside. We understand the science of them, well, probably. But we’re still mystically turned into kiddos. We want to have them land on our hands, we want to pop them with our hands (or noses, or whatever), and want to alter their bubblian journey by blowing on them.
And we’re suddenly in a competition to make the biggest bubble to ever bubble.
Finding a bitchin’ stick while out on a walk is a wonder. It’s now a walking staff, and you’re navigating the woods like a god-damned wizard. Then it’s a wizard staff where you put a spell on your nemesis, which in the adult world is probably some dude named Carl who works in HR.
If your friend also finds a cool stick, it becomes a sword, and you have an epic battle. It goes on until the sticks break, or one of your backs goes out, reminding you that mentally you might be twelve but physically you’re still 52.
People with a touch of the ‘tism have really co-opted cool rock finding, but I think all of us adults love finding a cool friggin rock. I’ll stare into that purdy rock like Trump stared into the eclipse. If it has a fossil in the rock, I’ll lose my mind and imagine I’m surrounded by dinosaurs.
Rocks are gneiss.
Every parent knows the rule: when filling up water balloons, your kids get 2/3s of the haul, and you keep 1/3 for yourself. You’ll then wait for them to run out of theirs, which takes approximately 127 seconds — even though it took you an hour to fill them. Now you’re questioning your life choices.
But you can snap yourself out of your existential ether by remembering that you have an arsenal of orbs filled with faucet jizz. You’ll then use them strategically, from a covered position, to exact revenge on your kids for the time they told your neighbour that you steal forks from Denny’s.
You know the Pringles slogan, ‘Once you pop, you can’t stop’; I think they stole that from bubble wrap. So head on over to grown-uppy Disney, aka Home Depot, and pick up a 50’ roll for under twenty dollars. Lay that poppy summabitch on the floor, and I dare you not to walk on it. Once you’ve succumbed to the bubbly popping — roll on it.
And if you don’t then turn yourself into a bubble burrito, you’re missing out on life.
Remote-control toys aren’t for kids. Ok fine, they can play with them for a bit. But a guaranteed forget-all-your-worries time is playing with remote-controlled toys. Like putting Tonka trucks and diggers in a sandbox. Add some chairs and a cooler of cold beer around it, and it will babysit any unruly adults in your life for hours.
There’s a restaurant in Dubai with this setup, and it looks like a Saharan wet dream for grown-ups. If you don’t have Dubai Money (spoilers: I don’t have Dubai money), there’s another one in Ohio.
If you don’t have Ohio money…go back to work.
This one always starts innocently: you’re playing with the kids with Lego. Before you know it, you’ve kicked them out of the room because they were affecting the structural integrity of The Lord of the Rings: Minas Tirith you’re building.
Beware: do not step on the Lego; it will transport you back to shitty adult reality. Then you go from being a Gondorian soldier to someone with laundry to do.
These cheap neon tubes are always a whimsical time. Attach two to a string, and now you have glowing numchucks to whirl around like you’re a night-time neon ninja.
I personally love putting on electronic music and dancing with them. It reminds me of my raving days, which are behind me because they all start after 9 pm. And they’re too loud (…grumblegrumble everything is too loud now). Also, I can’t take ecstasy anymore because it may interact with all the pharmaceuticals in my pillbox.
Some germaphobes might cringe at diving face first into a ball pit. But for the rest of us who grew up surrounded by lead and cholera, we’re immune to it.
So hop on in with I-used-to-drink-water-from-a-rusty-hose impunity.
Swim like you’re a ballian Michael Phelps, throw the balls at your friends like they’re human target practice. Have a grand ole time. Or sink to the bottom like you finally found that quicksand that the 90s warned us about.
Balls are fun.
Bazinga.
Voila, you’ve joined the magical world of worry-free-ness, where childlike wonder is on demand.
The best part about activating the sleeper-cell secret agent of whimsy inside of you — is that now you can do it with grown-up money.
…And margaritas.
Join my merry band of Wilding Out Weirdos. Don’t be scared, we only bite on Tuesdays.
$1 per month ($10/year) ~ $2 per month ~ $3 per month ~ $4 per month ~ $5 per month
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