On Maturity

Statement: Growing up is optional.

Proof:  Ever since I turned 21, birthdays are the worsthdays (okay, so I forced that rhyme a little bit-- still more respectable than rhyming kodak with kodak, Pitbull).  They serve as a yearly reminder that no matter how hard I try, I will never be a kid again-- an unfortunate and unfair truth fact.  Any time I'm even slightly sad about having to grow up I think of my brother and my tear ducts dry up quicker than bird poop on a tin roof in Tijuana.  My older brother, "Nick," is incredible.  I'd bet my left arm (note: I'm a lefty and the deltoid is my favorite muscle, so that's a huge deal) that no human being that has met him for more than 37 seconds, doesn't love him. Part of his undeniable charm is his youthful personality (and most of the rest of it is due to his dazzling wordplay and mondo-sized heart).  

One of Nick's roommates "Paul" has four younger sibs-- quadruplets to be exact, which makes him the ultimate big bro.   From what I gather, Nick and Paul spend their days trying to out-big-brother each other.  Everyday events turn into showdowns.  Last weekend, I was lucky enough to witness quite a few of these monumental battles.  My favorite of which occurred upon the dropping of a pen-- a seemingly uninteresting occurrence.

Nick and Paul look at the pen, then at each other and immediately touch their noses (last one has to pick it up). Decidedly a tie, both of their feet (one from each roomie) spring towards the pen with Usain Bolt speed and Jack (you know, the ol' candlestick jumper)-like nimbleness.  I'm sitting at the kitchen table at the edge of my seat in joyful anticipation of what will happen next in this nail-biter.  The roommates skate around the kitchen, each of their feet hoping to gain full control of the coveted bic.  I thought for sure Nick's webbed toes would prove superior, but it wasn't long before the foot battle turned into a bonafide world cup match, right there in Kitchen Stadium (not the one in Iron Chef America, but that would be a great venue for their next showdown).  I'm not entirely sure what happened next.  Before I knew it Paul had made us all delicious spinach, tomato and goat cheese omelettes-- apparently it was just another Saturday morning.