Knowing right from wrong is all but impossible at my age and turning from zero to one is clearly no rite of passage. The changes that come with such an age aren’t so great, and this seems less a rite and far more a rong of passage to me.
My culture doesn’t have a bar mitzvah, hazing confirmation, or any other sort of juvenile abuse system to define my transition to a greater age or status. Instead I’m forced to find my own developmental landmarks, and this is just such a milestone I’ve been forced to invent.
Landmark changes include (and against my will, I might add):
- Master suite eviction. Though it’s still in process, I’m being forced out of the parental master suite down to the steerage accommodations of the brethral dormitory.
- Formula from disaster. Getting off the metaphorical “real thing” was rough, but formula made it doable and kept me fortified with essential vitamins and minerals, aka the finest of breakfast cereals — or at least the claims of their commercials. Now the formula is gone and all I get is moo-some milky milk of cow. It’s a little wierd when you weigh it all around.
- Shoeing my superfly hooves. I thought the dorm sleeping was going to be my boot camp, but now my feet have clompers on ‘em and my emotions are mixed. I can barely take odd steps on my own, but adding hefty hoofers makes it that much more impossible. Can’t I at least ruin a few pairs of socks before moving me on to shoes? I’m forced into sneakers just for standing up on (and by) myself… that, and of course, because I’m now one. Did I mention I’m one already?
- Slower response time to midnight cry-fests. Mom and dad have to commute room to room just to check out my inter-nightly-nap needs. They’re much slower than my screams delivery to them and the proximity thing becomes ascendedly worse.
- More shots, pokes, jabs and less-than-speedy in-skin inoculations are no picnic, and just because I’m one now, our otherwise kindly doctor lady demands I have more. Can diseases really be worse than poking? I guess so. They’re both bad, but only the shots come with stickers and a sucker.
So instead of having to climb a tall tower, marry, or suffer tattoos head to forcibly enbootied foot I have to use the abstract passage of a random Tuesday on the fourth month of a Roman calendar to denote my growth. Sounds odd and perhaps it is. Hey man, at least I got a fine party, which I’ll cover a bit more tomorrow. Stay tuned.
AFTERTHOUGHT: I actually turned one just over a month ago, it’s just that it’s been such a huge event devoid of any huge changes that it’s taken me 7% of my life to complete this article.