October 19, 2019

I am a grown-up man-child and it’s awesome

Posted

While sitting on the couch playing a “Toy Story” themed video game in my fluffy gray footie pajamies, eating a peanut butter chocolate chip cookie the size of my head, I came to a startling realization: my life is freakin’ sweet!

I know what you’re thinking: “Whoa, Dom, that does sound awesome! How do I attain this immense level of satisfaction in my own life?”

Fear not my fellow (wo)man-child, for I shall guide you on the way to your own personal happy place.

First, grab your favorite pieces of clothing from when you were between the ages of 10 and 13. That tattered and mustard-stained baseball cap grandpa gave you after your first Tigers game, or the horribly scratchy sweater grandma knitted with a dose of love and what feels like a bucket of AstroTurf. Maybe you’ve still got the slightly stained Superman underoos you wore for that Halloween costume in elementary school — bring those too.

Now, using all of your physical strength and emotional fortitude, squeeze into your article of clothing. I understand for some, myself included, our younger frame does not mesh well with the beefcakes we have become in adulthood. This is OK. Ignore the screams of elastic bands snapping and the cry of cloth rending to shreds underneath your supple form. This is all normal, and an important step in the process.

Next, search online for a special song or video that takes you back to the same time frame as your article of clothing. It’s important to dig deep here — in my case, poorly dubbed versions of Japanese fighting anime programs are the best choice. For you, it may be an episode of “The Hulk” featuring the one and only Lou Ferrigno. Or possibly that episode of the “Donny and Marie” show, where the older brothers played a cover of “I Shot the Sheriff.” Whatever your decision, if you’re willing to publicly admit you enjoyed the program, it’s probably not embarrassing enough for this exercise.

The penultimate step is to raid your kitchen for the most sugar-laden, stress-relieving, coma-inducing excuses for food you can find. If your teeth don’t hurt just from looking at the ingredients, it’s not going to be enough to help you ascend to the pinnacle of happiness I have achieved. Suitable examples are what I like to call the Hobo S’more, Cheeze Bomb or the Lil’ Devil. Graham crackers covered in marshmallow fluff and chocolate syrup, cheesy poofs covered in spray-cheese and a Twinkie sandwiched between two Little Debbie frosted cupcakes, respectively.

Finally, and this is the most important step, ignore all complaints from family members or significant others while you take a nauseatingly cathartic trip down memory lane. Wife asks you to put pants on because you’re scaring the dog? Turn up the volume and pretend you can’t hear ’em! Kids ask if they can have some of your snacky cakes? Shove the whole thing in your piehole at once, pound your chest and grunt menacingly until they leave you to your bliss. Neighbors ask you to close the shades so they don’t have to watch you ascend to nirvana? Blast some tunes and bust a move to celebrate your blossoming jubilation.

Just because we’re getting older doesn’t mean we have to be any more mature. Sometimes it’s just as important to spend time being the person you wanted to be 20 years ago as it is to be the person you want to be in 20 years.

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