It is an oft-repeated recipe for staying young at heart: Hang around with young folks. Their enthusiasm for life will rub off on you and the years will fall away like darkness before a rising sun. (Actually, “hang around” is an ancient expression; you “hang with young folks”, not around them. Write that down.)
As the father of two elementary school-age children, I have had ample opportunity to test that theory, as I have found myself in situations I would certainly not have been in at my age had these kids never come into my life. I refer, for example, to an earlier column in which I detailed my life-threatening descent down a ridiculously high and straight water slide into a baby’s plastic swimming pool of water last summer. And then there was the ride I took on the “Twister” at a fall fair last year when I believe I took hanging on for dear life to a whole new level.
I’ve been “glow bowling”, ice skating, bike riding and toboggan sliding, though I am still at a loss to see what advantage any of these activities might have over a couch and a remote control. But, you’ve got to go along. Who wants to be remembered as the old grump who would never leave the house?
A friend of mine, given somehow to independent thinking, believes the kids-keep-you-young theory is all backwards. A former school bus driver, he says that, while he found the school kids to be a lot of fun, they reminded him of his age every day more than any glance in the mirror ever could. Conversely, he feels young when he’s around people who are older than he is, and so he’s now employed driving seniors to appointments and such. He also shows slides of his many travels to the residents of nursing homes. Works every time, he says. He never fails to come away feeling like a young buck.
But I’m sticking with Theory One and so it was on Sunday that I found myself standing in line with two other dads and our three sons all in the nine-year-old age range for a chance to chase each other, and a bunch of total strangers, around a darkened room with laser packs strapped to our backs, shooting each other with laser-emitting guns. I will admit that I was a somewhat reluctant participant in this activity, highly doubtful, as I was, that much pleasure would be flowing my way as the result of running around in the dark trying to hit the various flashing lights on the shoulder packs of the other players, with the ultimate object of trying to record the most hits.
However, imagine my surprise when, not a minute or two into this enterprise, I found myself involved in some sort of rapid regression whereby the years fell away and soon, there I was, a nine-year-old boy again, hiding behind trees and fence posts and playing cops and robbers with the neighbour kids. I ran up and down ramps, in and out of darkened corners, sneaking up on my prey and blasting them whenever I could. Just as often, my gun would make the tell-tale dying sound that announced I’d been shot and I would have to wait five seconds before I could fire again.
This truly was fun. My friend was oh, so wrong. Hanging around with a bunch of kids was bringing out the kid in me. I was giggling, light on my feet and as stealthy as James Bond. This is a place I’m definitely coming back to.
About this time, a young guy maybe seven or eight years old, came tearing around a corner and shot me directly in the chest, recording a hit and silencing my gun.
“Hey, I killed an old man!” he yelled, I presume, to his buddies hiding somewhere.
An old man?
For the rest of the game, I moved a lot slower. My bum knee was acting up and I could feel my blood pressure threatening to erupt in a volcano through the top of my head. The carpal tunnel pains in my fingers began shooting with every squeeze on the trigger.
My friend, in fact, was right. Next week, I’m going lawn bowling.
Couch, remote: Wait up for me!
©2005 Jim Hagarty
