Remember When...

When I was twelve years old, as unusual places began to itch and even odder ones sprouted hair, there was nothing I wanted more than to be morbidly depressed. Adolescent angst, suicidal tendencies, a complete disregard for the fashion standards of the day, these were the attributes I admired. After hearing the term on a late night foreign film where the chicks had armpit hair but you got to see their boobs, I proudly labeled myself an “existentialist”. Hair creeping down past my eyes, oversized black Doc Martins, and a middle school social career teetering on the margins, I had the groundwork laid. If only my damn sense of general contentment and overall fulfillment hadn’t kept getting in the way.

While other kids my age played sports, rode bikes, and exaggerated each other’s homosexual tendencies to compensate for their own confusing feelings about Zack Morris, I promenaded around my neighborhood wearing a scarf and pretending that bright light hurt my eyes. You see, I was an artist, and though I had no talent or original thoughts, I was convinced that the key to my success was in suffering. Moping through the hallways of my upper middle class suburban existence, I was determined to my mock my fortune and disdain my privilege. Pottery Barn accent pillows? Uh, they were off the man! Holiday scented bowls of potpourri? Please, I preferred patchouli.

But then just as I had myself convinced that life had no meaning, my mom would call from the kitchen. “Love muffin, do you want to lick the brownie bowl?”

Do I want to lick the brownie bowl? You bitch!

I mean, who doesn’t want to lick the bowl? Damn it! Once again my efforts were thwarted! How could I be a frustrated, disenchanted artist when there were chocolate covered beaters to enjoy?
Realizing that eternal joy would haunt me for the rest of my life, I decided I needed to move on and find a new artificial, protective identity. I spent a few days as a liberal activist until realizing I enjoyed eating meat and didn’t care for people who were different. Then I thought I could be one of those super hip Christians who refer to Jesus as their best friend and use too much gel in their hair, but the whole believing in Jesus thing kept getting in the way. Outdoors man one day, eccentric recluse the next, I exhausted myself searching for something I couldn’t identify or really even understand. In the throes of adolescence, I felt compelled to shift and search for my identify. Well, shift, search, and masturbate. I wanted to masturbate too.

Now, 27 years old and a bit more content, I revisit these embarrassing trails as a reminder; a therapeutic refresher on why I am thankful to now discuss co-pays and credit rating over drinks with friends. Yes, now I have to make a car payment, but I also do not have to worry about my mom finding my “special” sock hidden under my bed.

You see, as I get closer and closer to my wedding date, I can’t help but wonder, when in the hell did I grow up?

Working with 12 year olds on a daily basis, I understand more than anyone how much their lives suck. So don’t get me wrong, I have no desire to return to those “carefree” days. Nor am I trying to skirt responsibility or bitch about the realities of grown-up life.

I am more just in awe of me as an adult.

Wasn’t it just last week I was wearing brown loafers with white socks up to my knees wondering when I would finally get my man smell? I mean, I just recently realized I had completed puberty.

While I am happy to have left black fingernail polish and my DC Talk cassette tapes behind, I am a little concerned I have lost more than that.

Recently, I have been working with my students on Red Ribbon Week, a celebration of a drug-free lifestyle and the promotion of smart choices. Me. The guy who once got so high I announced to all my friends that “I was erosion” and then ate 9 pudding Snack Packs. And now here I am wearing a red shirt, pink tie, and a “Reach for the Stars Not Drugs” sticker because that’s just how drug free I really am! Next, I’ll be handing out True Love Waits buttons because premarital sex makes the baby Jesus cry.

How did I become an adult? What marked the occasion? Was it financial independence? Job security? That Friday night I opted to stay in and watch Flip that House over going to the bar with friends? How did carefree experimentation and an expression of youthful liberty suddenly translate into a pathetic waste and grounds for a restraining order?

I am not trying to complain. I am perfectly content with going to bed at 9:00 on Fridays and getting overly excited about the 2 for 1 Chardonnay special at my local Chili’s. I have just been taken off guard.

I wonder if other people face this conundrum or if it’s just me? Do any of us really ever grow up or do we just get taller and open more lines of credit? Are Playstation 3’s and iPods just more expensive and sophisticated G.I. Joes?

I don’t know. But I will tell you one thing, I do not care how many pairs of white pants I own or how much I bitch about modern music, I will always lick the bowl.