The joys of being a kid are fading...

After having a full-time four years of college under my belt, I somewhat have an edge of confidence about me, for the “grown-up” that I am turning into. I am turning into an adult. I am letting go of that little kid mentality that I had played in my hand since Day One. But do I really want to do this?

Getting older is just another step in life, and as of late, I am not so excited to walk down this aging path. Turning 25 recently was not a big a deal, I know. I have had bigger thrills in my life, like the time I ran naked down a set of train tracks while being chased by the cops. Not as big of a transition as I tentatively thought it would be. On "the big day" I got the usual forced awkward happy birthday wishes from disgruntled employees singing off-key at Iggy's Sports Bar and Grill, which I am always a fan of. Other than that, I simply walked around town, the gym it seemed, with an extra spring in my step being one year older. But along with that I was stuck at the fork wondering if being older really was “better.”

As the years go by and my facial hair gets thicker and coarser, I can't help but think about all the things that I will most likely be missing out on because I have to “grow up.” No more Saturday morning cartoons and faces covered in maple syrup from six helpings of French toast. No more building forts out of blankets that span the entire living room or time machines made out of cardboard boxes that have warp-speed capability. No more seeing how many pieces of Bazooka Joe gum I could fit in my mouth just because my best friend dared me to.

Playing baseball in the street long after the sun has gone down and my parents have called you in three times, that seemed to be out of the question. No more playing hot lava in my living room, jumping from couch cushion to couch cushion to avoid the ferociously molten rock shag carpet. No more eating 5 pounds of candy Halloween night and waking up the next morning with the excitement of a hummingbird, no sign of a caffeine headache in sight. No more wearing underwear on my head as a helmet while I explored the mystery caverns of a far off planet somewhere in my basement's imagination. No more going on a safari in search of an endangered hippopotoceratops hiding somewhere in my backyard. No more not caring about what the words “interest rate” or “expenditures” meant. No more building the world's premier photon torpedo bazooka out of a pillow, a water bottle and an old shoestring. No more sword fights with the cardboard tubes at the center of wrapping paper. No more having names for my stuffed animals.

It's as if all of that is coming to an end day by day, class by class, job by job. All of my childhood memories were being loaded into the scrapbook emporium of things that I would never ever experience again, and I will soon enough be getting after my own children for their goofball accomplishments. Things such as sterilizing themselves from cootie contamination after touching anything girl-related. Or playing video games for 17 hours straight and not being tired in the least degree when they are done. Staring at the T.V. aimlessly wondering if Wile E. Coyote is ever going to catch the Roadrunner. Or making up stories to my wife about how a polka dotted three-headed flying skunk threw their baseball through their living room window. Am I going to miss those things? The bike rides to the gas station on hot summer days to splurge on a diet of 7-Up, gummy worms and Oreo cookies and not feeling guilty about how many calories I was consuming? Let alone, not even knowing what a calorie is in the first place. Pillow fights with my best friend at 3 a.m. in our weekly tree house sleepover. The secret clubs with the secret password being “boys rule, girls drool.” Or what about sticking up my parents, wearing a pair of old nylons over my face so mom and dad would'nt recognize who I was. Is it all a sham now?

Time goes on and things begin to change: bowl cuts to baldness; sugar frosted cocoa bombs to Shredded Wheat, Spiderman tighty-whiteys to silk boxers. The glorious days of being a kid are left behind to embrace a world full of taxes, insurance payments and 401 K's. The stereotypical Toys “R” Us clichés like I don't want to grow up or anything typical like that are not something that I was banking on. But I think to myself as the years go by, jobs are taken, bills are paid and memories are forgotten. I may have to mature and become a responsible adult, but dang I am going to miss being a kid, the days where nothing matters, the days where monsters lived in the closet and under the bed. The days where Kool-Aid and Skittles were an ample food supply, the glory days of being a kid.