I don't think I was a hellion, but mebbe I was as my folks registered me for kiddygarten at age 4. I wasn't ready for school, but, reckon no one is. But there I was, a little dab of Brylcreem, 'frankles' galore (as one of my kiddygarten friends called em.) Musta flown by, don't remember much about it.
Same with 1st grade. Nose to the grindstone, learned the letters in kiddy, now, putting a few of them together. Enda the year, reading, albeit with the speed of a snail.
Finally, 2nd grade. We knew it all. Weren't the fastest readers - but, of the age, where, unlike Kiddy and 1st where you read something and you simply can't think about what it is you're reading, you're too busy simply ensuring the words are right - 2nd grade, you kinda read and it kinda makes a little bit of sense. Vested in recess education by now, we've graduated to the pick and choose mode. Where some were once 'all in' EVERY recess to play kickball, you might find Johnny chasing Susy, Rita and Sally sitting on a bench discussing whatever it is 2nd graders discuss, Rose and Shirley playing hopscotch, then skipping rope. Branching out, we were, did.
Fast forward to high school. Where I went, freshmen weren't top dog (ie, grades 7-9), we were literally freshmen, in a grade 9 thru 12 setting. Scared you-know-what-less. We'd learn by observation and astonishment. Goals were never ever going to the principal's office, as well making it to lunchtime without some Junior or Senior talking us out of our lunch money.
Sophomore. Yeah baby, that's what I'm talking about. The shoe fits. We're believed to be goofy, so be it, happy with that. Tease, prank, joke. A wonderful, wonderful time of life - in spite of the fact, come October 31st, you wished you were out there with 'em, but something, because you were sposeta, kept you home thinking about "what do I want to do with my life." Fancy for, I'd rather be chasing Susy, or playing kickball, Hill Dill, or Red Rover Red Rover send Billy on over, or, finding out who/where were handing out full the sized Snickers.
Sophomores were flatbellied, mostly boobless, but if there was one in your History class that was booby-blessed, it's for sure you'd flunk the quiz at the end of the hour because you had nothing but boobies on your brain from staring.
Being a sophomore was right up my alley. There are, were, some - who didn't crack a smile until age 65. They're the ones that now snowbird, or at least annually vacation in Tahiti or Maui, have two and a half pissers for your spouse and you - and a kitchen with one of those stand alone counters that would hold enough food for the Kansas City Chiefs. Some, some learned to mix fun with seriousness, they ended up with one pisser for each, two walk in closets, and a detached kitchen counter with room enough to feed a basketball team. We sophomoric types, grow up having a lifetime of going to fun to have work, then at age 65 we have the house where we think "whereinthehell are we gonna put the microwave, there's no room, and it's our main source of cooking food."
Somehow, we make it to being a Junior, then Senior.. and some, enter college. Mousse' has replaced Brylcreem, we're clean behind the ears, our folks have assisted us in having enough essentials that we could live in a fallout shelter until age 42. Much, much time is spent watching others, seeing how "this is how a college kid is supposed to do it." Talk less, listen more. Be on time, watch your dime.
There's that number again. 2. We've made it to our 'Sophomoric' year, and our GPA's mostly are 2-something. The tuition bills come in the mail, those of us in the "I'll pay you back I promise" ilk are given not so keen stares when the Grade Point printout and 'college pay-me bill' are looked at simultaneously.
Oh, but sophomoric. I loved me some sophomoric. It's been my detriment to a lifetime of hella fun. Nuttin' to show for it now, but baby I earned these wrinkles laughing so hard, peeing a bit, not really taking life seriously at all.
As an example. You might tell Mr. or Mrs. All-too-Serious, "I love your hair that way." To which they would reply, "So, you hated it the other way?" Catastrophic thinking, Fear. Unknowingly on guard. Must have serious view on life and what could go wrong. "No, no, it looked good the other way, I just prefer this style."
I call BS. The sophomoric answer would be "Yeah, I've been wondering for years when you're gonna change that hairstyle." Mundane, replaced with humor, which leads to one day "whereinthehell are we gonna find counter space to put this microwave."
I so enjoyed my sophomoric year in college, I did it a second time. "HONEST, I'll pay you back, it was just a rough year."
Then, continued on as a 2nd year Sophomoric, doing the typical sophomoric fun-seeking things that college fraternal lads do. You seen the fliers for colleges advertising themselves with the two coeds sitting on a bench studying on the Quad? Well, that wasn't us. For instance. We'd have races to see which Freshman pledge was the fastest. No, no, no, not a foot race. A relay race. You take two blocks of ice, place them 25' feet apart, the pledges (clad in gunnysack, itchy shirts and jockstraps) must run from one block to the other, pickup the large marble that's atop the block of ice at the other end (or course without using hands) and run it to the other block of ice, place it, to where your teammate could then 'grab' it, and so forth and so forth.
So, while Mr. Serious and friends were at the library having communal engagement on theorems, analytics, common mediums and themes, we were busy laughing our ass off at red butt cheeks.
"It's your outlook on life that counts. If you take yourself lightly and don't take yourself too seriously, pretty soon you can find the humor in our everyday lives, and sometimes it can be a lifesaver." Betty White.
Betty friggin White, hell to the yes.
"Life is far too important a thing to ever talk seriously about." Oscar Wilde
No, I'l never have a Wiki page about me. I will continue to buy (economics dear boy) clunkers without collision insurance where the check engine light serves as a light source to read stuff at night. Unless I ever go to work for an airline again, I'll probably never see Maui again (Hey, I took the road to Hana once, wow, fun. So much fun, that George Harrison lived at the top.)
AARP letters come in the mail at age 50. (I tore the basta up. The next year though, I peeked to ascertain the discounts.) Social Security/Medicate come at age 65 if you so desire, hell to the yes, get me outta here. Then, at age 66, you're a sophomore again.
Bought an 18" by 24" table at a garage sale to put my microwave on.
Of course there are times for seriousness, but I have no regrets for living a life where the modus operandi leans toward sophomoric.
"Everything is changing. People are taking their comedians seriously and the politicians as a joke." Will Rogers
Burma Shave, with a little dab of Brylcreem. Is it envy induced when I say screw a buncha counter space?
Love, Victurd
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