The End of Fun

It’s a wonder I survived my childhood.

I almost drowned a couple of times.   Once, in the ocean off Laguna Beach in 1968, I got wiped out by a wave while body surfing and just didn’t come up…  for a long time.   Scared the shit out of me.

I never broke any limbs but I did taste bug spray once.  You know, just to see what it taste like.  It doesn’t taste good.

Thank you, evolution.

I never rode in a car seat.  I never wore a seat belt until I was in High School and driving on my own.   I never wore a helmet while riding a bike or skateboarding or tree climbing or getting the crap beat out of me by some huge 6th grader that didn’t like the way I tied my shoes.

Yet, I survived.  With some slight brain damage.  But I survived.

Of course, with my own girls I made them wear seat belts and helmets.   But, in the back of my mind, I wonder if they’re overly reliant on safety measures.   I know for a fact my oldest daughter will not eat anything that’s sat out overnight.  She quotes me chapter and verse on bacteria counts and mold colonies.  Me?  I know from vast experience that pizza doesn’t really go bad for at least three days.   How do I know this?  I’ve eaten four day old pizza.  And I’ve paid the price.

I learned from personal experience.  My kids learned from virtual experience.  I learned not to eat bug spray because it tastes bad.  They learned not to eat bug spray because,… well, because there was never a can of bug spray within three miles of them.

Now, I’m worried they’ll taste bug spray because they never got a chance to as kids.  Girls, please don’t taste bug spray.  It’s not a good idea.

Trust me.

I know.