I Want to Be Six Again. . .
To Whome it May Concern:
I am hereby officially
tendering my resignation as an adult in order to accept the responsibilities
of a 6 year old. The tax base is lower. I want to be six again.
I want to go to
McDonalds and think it’s the best place in the whole wide world to eat. I
want to sail sticks across a fresh mud puddle and make waves with rocks. I
want to think M&Ms are better than money, because you can eat them. I long
for the days when life was simple. When all you knew were your colors, the
addition tables and simple nursery rhymes, but it didn’t bother you, because
you didn’t know what you didn’t know, and you didn’t care at all.
I want to go back
to first grade and have snack time, recess, gym, art, music and field trips.
I want to be happy, because I don’t know what should make me upset. I want to
think the world is fair and that everyone in it is honest and good. I want to
believe that anything is possible. Sometime, while I was maturing, I learned
too much. I learned of nuclear weapons, prejudice, starving and abused kids,
lies, unhappy marriages, illness, pain and mortality. I want to be six again.
I want to be
oblivious to the complexity of life and be overly excited by the little things
again. I want to live knowing the little things that I find exciting will
always make me happy as when I first learned them. I want to be six again.
I remember not
seeing the world as a whole, rather being aware of only the things that
directly concerned me. I want to be naive enough to think that if I’m happy,
so is everyone else. I want to spend my afternoons climbing trees and
riding my bike, letting the grow-ups worry about time, the dentist, and how to
find the money to fix the car. I want to wonder what I’ll do when I grow up
and what I’ll be, who I’ll be, and not worry about what I’ll do if this
doesn’t work. I want that time back. I want to use it now as an escape, so
that when my computer crashes, or I have a mountain of paperwork, or two
depressed friends, or a fight with my spouse, or bittersweet memories of times
gone by, or second thoughts about so many things, I can travel back and build
a snowman, without thinking about anything else except whether the snow sticks
together and what I can possibly use for the snowman’s mouth. I want to be
six again. Don’t you?