Supposing I am

The days after Halloween are more than just the time to feel the effects of fructose overload. It's also a time for me to post a picture of my nephew Jack. With apologies to babies and chickens the world over, he is --quite objectively --the cutest representative of either group.

I was reminded on Tuesday of what it's like to be a kid. There are kids everywhere on Halloween, ages spanning the kinder-gamut, many decked out in what their parents chose for them. They stuggle to walk in elaborate suits, their faces barely emerging, swallowed up in a sea of cloth or plastic. So many times, these kids are asked to name their costume: "What are you supposed to be?" If you have to ask what I am supposed to be, I would think, then it doesn't really matter what I am. If I were to trick-or-treat today, and was asked to name my costume, I think I would say "I am Benign Emotional Neglect. Do you have any candy corn?"

But it's not the costumes that grab me. It's the way kids act. They run, they flail, they scream, they dance, their bodies practically ripple with kinetic energy. Sometimes, I will admit, this drives me nuts. Because kids are spastic, and they aren't reasonable. They have these tantrums. They won't shut up. There have been times where I swear that pieces of my brain were being ripped to useless shreds by the gale-force wail of a petulant child.

I am reminded sometimes that there is another side to this impracticality and impetuousness. The fun side. Kids do things that no one above the age of 7 will do, and they will do it for no other reason than this: it's what they wanted to do at that time. No cause, no effect, no paralyzing analysis or worry. They react to something inside themselves, and act out. And you can't help but smile when you see it.

I used to be a kid. When I was three years old or so, I was famous for my singing and dancing. My fame was limited to certain circles, such as my house and my relatives' houses. But they would come from all around in those parts to see me perform. I had a toy microphone, and I went off. I would sing and gyrate, Elvis-style, before I knew who Elvis was or how to spell gyrate. I think I even took my clothes off sometimes. It was positively scandalous.

I'm older now. Much older. Depending on your definition of 'adult', I may or may not be one--but I act the part more often than not. I go to work. I exchange pleasantries in elevators, and act indignant when appropriate. I pick up my dry cleaning hurriedly. I make small talk about how the weekends are waaaay too short, and ain't that the truth, haha.

When I go out and get a few drinks with friends, sometimes things change. If the mood is right, I am in the right crowd, and I've had just the right amount of booze, there's a switch that gets flipped in me. Suddenly, you can't keep me off the dance floor. It's as if something inside of me is welling up. And I flail. And I scream. And I dance.

I'm really happy when it does happen. I don't really know why it happens, or where it comes from. It's just me. Probably the part of me that doesn't want to worry about what I am supposed to be.