What’s My Age Again?

Excuse him; he’s just unsure about something over in the next aisle. If Debbie could simply follow him to where the problem is occurring and explain everything, it will be greatly appreciated. Debbie tags along until they reach their final destination, about 15 feet from where she was so rudely interrupted. The customer then asks Debbie a question she has been answering all day: A question that could have been answered 15 feet away: “Do you have any more of these?”
The answer Debbie has and will always give in a situation like this is “If there aren’t any on the shelf then we’re sold out, sorry.” She holds in something she has wished to say for a very long time ("If I had more they would be on the shelf and if you weren’t such an idiot it wouldn’t pain me to add that last word!”) and waits for the “Okay, thanks anyways” of a shattered soul as it departs. But something is different, this guy isn’t leaving, he really wants this desk and if he doesn’t get it he will cause a scene Debbie has never witnessed. “I’m very sorry” Debbie says “but I don’t have any more desks to give out, you’ll have to come back later.” The man eyes fill with tears and he falls to the floor kicking and screaming, “I want the desk! Give me the desk! I hate you!”
“Get up!” Debbie yells. The man frantically explains to Debbie between sobs that she is not his Mom and she can’t tell him what to do. “How old are you?” Debbie asks. The man flashes all ten fingers three times and then holds up two fingers on his right hand. “Then act like it!” Debbie scolds.

Debbie agrees with me that age shouldn’t define maturity; unfortunately, intellectual development cannot be measured at the door of a bar or a movie. As it stands, some people with the intelligence of a rock are allowed to drink massive amounts of alcohol and purchase weapons because they were born 18 or more years ago. They can go and see “R” rated movies and are assumed to be bright enough to understand the consequences of buying that pack of cigarettes. It is a shame in many cases that so many idiots are given this kind of freedom simply for defying the odds and staying alive for 18 years. As it stands, however, the law states that once you have reached the age of majority (18 or 21) you are considered an adult and are afforded such privileges.

A few days ago I was asked if I consider myself a boy or a man. I believe myself to be a young man, but if forced to choose between the two, I would have to say a boy; I’ll be a boy until I’m 35. At which time I will most likely be told to grow-up by a girlfriend or a psychiatrist, whomever I’m seeing at the time; forced through the door I always thought was labeled with a synonym for boring. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe I will poke my head through the door labeled “adulthood” in exactly a month and one week to see a group that I won’t mind spending the rest of my life in.
I’ll admit after spending so long in different variations of the group “child” with a “male” side-group I have been a little bit worried about being exposed to a different environment since I first got moved from the kids table. Being exposed to the “female” side-group more and more over the years just fuels my anxiety. I think many of us would be shocked if they saw how the opposite sex acted when others aren’t around. Okay, so they might not be shocked but I’m sure there would be a few reinforced stereotypes. I witnessed a poor two-year-old girl’s violent shove into the male culture first hand in a men’s bathroom.

A father had brought his daughter into the washroom so she could do her business. The business, it seemed, had been attended to by the time I entered and I could see her cute little white shoes were closer to the stall door than her fathers. I admired the little pink ribbon on the child’s shoes patiently waiting for the bigger brown shoes to finish their business. Both parties accomplished what they had planned to, and as if to ice the cake the father let out a thunderous fart. It was an emission that, if followed by anything other than the father’s angel shouting “Yuck!” wouldn’t be as sweet. The only thing that could possibly add to it was the dad’s very confused “What?!”
Most of the time we don’t realize what we’ve done wrong when someone from a different group gives us heck for it. But when I reluctantly step through the door labeled “adulthood” on September 10th maybe I can find out why they’ve been telling me to act my age for so long.

-Teck

I never get in trouble for acting older…