Saturday, December 10, 2016

                    
                                            What’s Left of Your Inner Child?

     Yesterday, as I was descending the escalator, I saw Santa waving at me from below. Of course, I gave him my $2000 Ipana smile and waved back. My inner child is still intact.

      Every morning, when Mr. Wonderful is engrossed in his morning paper, I let out a loud exclamation in a foreign language of my own creation. Sometimes I yodel it; sometimes I use my best baritone operatic voice, and occasionally I throw out an Alvin, the Chipmunk, rendition. He rolls his eyes, never allowing himself to laugh for fear it might encourage me. I don’t discourage easily. I am careful to add this to his morning ritual daily. When I’m gone, tears will fill his eyes wishing he could hear my silly.

     The other night, I wore my red Santa hat with the fake fur snowball tassle to a meeting. People smiled politely, undoubtedly saying to themselves, “What’s wrong with that woman?” After the meeting Mr. Wonderful took me to a restaurant for dinner. This place is a local hangout where people dress in their best tee shirts and most comfy flip flops. Not my cup of tea. I walked in with my Santa hat perched on my do, and people stared. They didn’t smile, chuckle or wave, they just stared. Hilarious. I stared at them too thinking, “Get on with your mashed potatoes. I still have my inner child. Where’s yours?”

     They say that if you’ve had a trauma as a child, your emotional maturity stops there. Well, I was kidnapped at five, humiliated publicly at six and jilted at 11, so perhaps that’s why I’m still a kid at heart. I feel sorry for any who don’t still have a small part of that little kid who can act silly, jump up and down when excited or throw an occasional tantrum. Life is so short. Savor silly. Celebrate the absurd. Dare to laugh too often. Let go.