All I want for Christmas is a dental plan so I can get my two front teeth fixed. Once upon a time, I was Evil Knievel on a scooter, and my Grand Canyon was basically an eroded 6' chasm in the middle of an old driveway. Now this was sometime in the late 80's, so a scooter was a scooter: you know the skateboard with the suped-up BMX mini-wheels with rad tread? The scooter was what I guess we'd now call "life size," as it didn't give off the appearance of a dwarf's hoofin' Harley, and the handlebars were roughly the span of one's shoulders as opposed to the span of that one sturdy good pencil you used to use for pencil fighting. And don't even try to act like you weren't pencil fighting! You know you got busted... Anyway, I mounted my scooter at the top of the old driveway, which was a rather steep, un-paved red mud mound sprinkled with gravel, and commenced to careen myself down at break-neck speed. Now, the plan was to lean back and pop a wheelie right at the moment I hit the homemade ramp and soar over the chasm (a word I use freely and can spell now that I am beyond my 5th grade spelling bee debacle), thereby landing triumphantly on the other side unscathed and basking in the glow of my tomboyishness. But, um, what actually happened was, I kinda chin-upped the wheelie (instead of leaning back) and stayed in the middle of the board, thereby getting no flight, and I crashed. I crashed twin-engine-plane-into-the-side-of-a-rocky-mountain style. Right into the exposed concrete drainage pipe - with my face. Miraculously my nose was not broken, although it did swell quite a bit - almost to an Usher-nostril span even. My face was covered in a mud and blood mask, my chin was scraped, a knot bloomed on my forehead and the teeth that had grown in straight (nevermind the gap; the gap is a coveted seal of uniqueness in my family) were now rather cleanly chipped at nice 45 degree angles.
Eventually I had them bonded, but over the years the bonding has slowly eroded away, coming ever closer to revealing the bluntness of my determination. This, like the countless other scars adorning my body, remind me of the child I used to be.
In summers I likened myself to be a swashbuckling Kool-Aid-aholic with a penchant for blackberries and watermelon. I was not so much the avid tree climber as I was a fence wrangler, dastardly bounding over old poles and twisting through barbed wire so I could explore in other people's greener pastures. I preferred football over easy bake ovens, my bike over Barbies and jams over culottes. Always on the look for arrowhead rocks and other Indian artifacts, I considered myself to be like Encyclopedia Brown and Indiana Jones, desperately craving to solve mysteries and engage in wild, fast, snake-ridden adventures. I never went anywhere without my cousin Reggie; I was his trusty sidekick, the co-builder of all our cantankerous clubhouses. He always led excursions into the woods where we played like we were on Nature Scene. Well, he played like he was on Nature Scene, pointing out deciduous trees, lizards and various other flora and fauna, while I imagined it was all a Liberian jungle and we were in danger! "Did you not hear the ku-kaw of the monkey?!" I would ask in earnest as he would be trying to creep up behind some rabbit.
"Shhhh, that was a bird. There are no monkeys here. We aren't in Africa, stupid. Look at that rabbit. If we catch him, we can breed him."
Breed him? Sometimes boys killed me. Always trying to breed something - pigs, dogs, rabbits... I thought it was senseless matchmaking and directly interfered with the natural chain of life; let Thumper find his own Mrs. Rabbit... "Who you callin' stupid, lookin' like Elmer Fudd crouching behind a tree trying to sneak up on a rabbit. That thing sees you, wearing them bright behind jams. Ain't nothing camouflage about no fluorescent colors, Reggie."
We had us a good time. He used to make me laugh when he swore he was going to grow up and marry a Hawaiian princess. I used to suggest he get himself a Tahitian Treat and call it a day. We played outside more than we were ever inside. He was always up at daylight. I'm a sleeper, except for on Saturdays when I had to watch my cartoons... those were really good times.
I am thinking about those good times a lot now mostly because the marvel that is the DVD has given back to me a staple from my childhood: Pee Wee's Playhouse is BACK! Heh. Heh. Oh, I love me some Pee Wee and the secret word of the day, Chair-y (or however you spell it!) and some meck-a-leck-a-hi-meck-a-himey-ho! GREAT times. I am adding that to my must have Christmas list, because my childhood memories wouldn't be complete without some Pee Wee! I had forgotten how much he meant to me, but I lived for that show. Isn't the imagination great? And you can say what you want about Pee Wee, but his show was valuable to my belief system as a kid. For the first time, I could see that maybe it would be possible to be a grown up and still be funny and play and have plenty of great friends to drop in and add to the fun. My mom loved her some Pee Wee; we watched it together and she was always so good about screaming loud and crazy whenever I said the word o' the day. It used to crack me up that she liked Pee Wee, too. Man, what a good theme song, too :)
They're all finding their way back. The Care Bears recently enjoyed a resurgence into the mainstream, but they weren't really my favorites. I hope they bring more of the good stuff back though because I can't tell you how much I miss my Gummi Bears, Duck Tales, Rainbow Bright, the Garbage Pail Kids, My Little Ponies and Alvin and the Chipmunks (and the Chippettes!). I'm a Goonie for life, and you know we never say die, and so I also have to say that the story should never end, fraggles should still be rockin', pinwheels need to keep on spinnin'and we need to keep on pretendin' in Mr. Roger's Neighborhood.
Why? Well, why not?! Some people tell us to never forget what it's like to be a child. And I don't think that quote is saying BE childish, but I know for myself that as I've gotten older, I've gradually been (for lack of a better word) tricked into taking myself too seriously. I'm so hard on myself that it keeps me from moving with ease and joy in this world. Cynicism has brought me closer to cuckoo than Cocoa puffs ever would! I mean, is it me, or does all the airbrushing, cuts and colorings, and the hacking and morphing going on look a lot like desperate attempts at grown ups playing a whacked out version of pretending? I mean, really. We get all into buying up all this stuff that makes us look and feel like so and so supahstah, but do you remember when it was enough, what real fun it was, to play like you had long hair with that blue towel on your head? Or how you hoarded all the aluminum foil and rubber bands you could find from all over to see how big of a ball you could make? Or what about powerful deflector bracelets made out of foil - I could zap Wonder Woman herself if she dared challenge me!
I don't know. The thought of going back to Pee Wee's playhouse really just filled me with a lot of realizations and a need to reconsider what's important. I'm a grown up now, but I can't remember what I wanted to be when I was a kid imagining what a great grown up I'd become. I've also forgotten the gleeful tingle of excitement I'd feel immediately upon hearing, "Dashing through the snow..." Suddenly I feel a lot like Tom Hanks in Big when he realizes that grown up people really have problems... lol.
I know, this has gone on long enough, and you may be feeling like, "God. Shut up already! You are such a whining loser."
(But I can't let you get away with meanie head thoughts like that, so I'm going to stick my tongue out at you and tell it like it is:)
"I know you are, but what am I?"