The Wonder Years?
by Kevin Brotzman

When I was younger, I anticipated each birthday with a sense of awe and excitement. I couldn’t wait to be another year older. Seven sounded so much more important than six, six than five, and so forth. Once I hit the double digits, I’d have it made. Heck, when I got into high school, I started rounding my age up to the next year to impress girls. Because, you know, fifteen sounded so much more mature than fourteen. Birthdays used to be fun. … And then last year I turned nineteen. For the last fifteen months, I’ve been stuck in this purgatory between childhood and adult responsibilities, and, frankly, it’s left me feeling pretty schizophrenic. These are the two ages sandwiched between milestones, and I’m just sitting around trying to decide where my life is going, waiting to get into the bar.

Last weekend was the perfect example. I was home for a few days and decided to swing by my old high school for the homecoming and alumni reception. It was nice to play the role of prodigal son, to converse freely with former teachers, to be set apart as some sort of distinguished guest, and, most importantly, to know that I was free to leave whenever I wished. Still, I felt out of place. First, it seemed that I was the only graduate from the class of 2000 to attend the reception. I was branded with the dreaded blue nametag, indicating that I was indeed under twenty-one. So, while my older friends threw back a few Budweisers, I helped myself to the Sprite. Meanwhile, I’m listening to said friends discuss the foibles of their new careers as high school teachers. These guys are only two years older than me, yet they have benefits packages, new cars, and the like. One of them is getting married in July. July! I sit by, nodding and interjecting whenever I get the chance. But what can I say? “Yeah, totally; that reminds me of this thing that happened last week. I woke up from my afternoon nap and played video games until my eyes hurt!” That pales in comparison to lesson plans on Le Morte d’ Arthur. Suddenly, I start looking around for a kiddie table, like the ones families usually have at Thanksgiving dinner. Hey, some parents brought their toddlers with them! Maybe I’d be more comfortable among my own kind. Pass the plastic yellow dump truck, please.

All the same, I realize that there are times when the outside world is trying to drag me, kicking and screaming, into maturity. After all, I’m a registered voter, for better or worse. I’ve signed up for Selective Service, not that I have to worry about America going to war. (On an unrelated note, I hear Canada is lovely this time of year.) I’ve held out on the whole driver’s license thing, but they’ll break me sooner or later. My summers have been rife with gainful employment since I was a junior in high school. As far as college goes, there’s no denying that it’s forced me to assert my independence in small doses. I see my family four times a semester, tops. I do my own laundry, and I’ve learned to make soup and Easy Mac. I’ve chosen a major (two, in fact), effectively setting me on some sort of career track. Most terrifying of all, I’ve chosen a play to direct for my drama thesis. In less than a year I’ll be directing. Telling people what to do. Playing God. I’ll have the lives of other people in my hands, in a way. I suppose I’ll have to suppress the urge to stare blankly at my cast and sputter, “You’re actors…do stuff!” I think that’s rule number one for directing. If it’s not, it should be. Or at least number two, after “The fetal position is not a good vantage point during rehearsals.”

Come to think of it, clinging desperately to the last vestiges of childhood and adolescence doesn’t sound so bad. Screw it. The real world will still be there two years from now, Bush willing. It’s entirely possible that college will be my last chance to really goof off and be an absolute twit with so few repercussions … unless, of course, I get a government job. In that case, allow me to make a few declarations: I am a twenty-year-old college student. Yes, I own a life-sized cardboard standup of professional wrestler Chris Jericho. I also have several Playmates Simpsons figures prominently on display in my room. I watch cartoons whenever the opportunity arises, as long as there isn’t any wrestling on another channel. I spent Monday counting down the hours until the new Grand Theft Auto video game was released, as though Monday were Christmas Eve. I then purchased the game and giggled with glee the first time I got to paste a guy on a moped while speeding into oncoming traffic in a much larger vehicle. I still manage to smear food all over my face while eating, especially if it’s ice cream or pasta. I believe that the only redeeming value of early morning classes is the subsequent post-class naps. I went to class on Halloween in full costume, complete with blacked out teeth and a ridiculous curly black wig. I have been known to start abruptly humming the theme to American Gladiators or to throw a foam football at a suitemate’s face when he least expects it. Oh, and I miss those Mr. Cone Head ice cream sundaes that they used to have on the Friendly’s kids’ menu. If these things make me immature, then so be it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go make some mud pies and pull a girl’s hair. Yeah, that would be sweet.