I'm turning today's blog entry over to Pop Culture America Staff Writer Dougie, Age 7. Oops. I mean "Age 8." It's a bit like writing a check just after New Year's; you're still locked into the old number. Take it away, Dougie!
I don't feel any different today than I did yesterday. Oh, I've got a bit of a stomach-ache from the chocolate-strawberry cake that Yvette made and there are a few dollars in my pocket from all the birthday cards, but I woke up this morning expecting the world to look different from an 8-year-old's perspective.
It looks infuriatingly the same.
I didn't get any smarter, didn't gain any new insight. I still have to go to second grade when Monday rolls around. There's a math test. Minuses. Not really my thing.
I think The Naked Brothers Band said it best: "I Don't Want To Go To School."
But I will.
As the only kid in my grade currently holding down a full-time job, I do enjoy a little prestige. Or maybe I'm fooling myself. Maybe they just think I'm a freak. If only I could see into the hearts and minds of my fellow pre-teens. Now that's the kind of gift that should arrive when one reaches a momentous milestone like 8 completed years existing on this planet. Should, but doesn't.
I suppose it's not terribly realistic of me to expect the wisdom of the ages to suddenly spring up like toast. Wisdom arrives gradually over time like a mountain of toast.
I wonder how tall my toast mountain is after 8 years.
Sometimes I try to comprehend the world all those years ago, back in April of 2000 when I was born, but everything is so different now. In 2000, there was no YouTube. America was still hopeful, galvanized by the Presidential candidacy of Charles R. Doty. There was the thrill of the release of Tony Hawk 2.
The country was so young then. And so was I. Newborn, in fact. Me, not the country.
Now, we're both older and sadly, a little more jaded. It's inevitable.
But there's no sense fretting about it. Time marches on.
Maybe it will all make sense when I'm 9.
Dougie, Age 8.