There is a fine line between being a grown-up and being a child. I believe 22 is, in its entirety, balanced precariously upon that line like a girl in a tutu walking the highwire at a circus. Sometimes, that girl and I, we veer closer to the adult side. We buy sensible shoes, we drink wine, and we purchase pinstripe skirts that are suitable for losing congressional races. Other days, we fall squarely in the middle, behaving ourselves all day long talking about intelligent things and planning trips to Europe, only to come home and snuggle with our roommates and watch cartoons. And then, there are the days when I am fully comfortable with ditching the girl and falling off the rope entirely. And what better excuse to revert back to childhood than for a snow day?
I have sledded, I have made snowballs, I have even hit people with snowballs – a miracle considering my notoriously poor aim and weak arm muscles. I have even helped to shovel the driveway of the neighborhood crankster who blames us kids (when we choose to think of ourselves as children) whenever a golf ball breaks his window. I just felt that, in the spirit of Christmas, shoveling his driveway was the right thing to do. Also, it probably made him feel like a jackass and the next time he goes to yell at us, he’ll probably think twice. After all, the spirit of the season is all about giving. Giving neighborly assistance…and guilt!
I am so lucky to live in a neighborhood where every family subscribes to the “It Takes A Village” theory. When I was small, there was no difference between this kid and that kid, my kid and your kid. There also wasn’t a single time-out corner I hadn’t sat in! And now that I’m older, there isn’t a single house that wouldn’t take me in, make me breakfast, and sit me down to ask about my life. And then make me shovel their driveway. So, I guess in that way, there really isn’t that big of a difference in childhood and adulthood after all. Now, I just wear bigger snowpants.