Stink

Here we are, the stretched Lincoln and me, waiting for the evening’s customers. Tonight it’s eight over-dressed teens trying  to be adults, safe in the delusion that adulthood is all limousines and parties.

I see these children (for they are still children) trying so hard to be grown up. Why? Adulthood will come to them at some point. What propels them to get there asap?
My kid innocence lasted much longer than most. I revel in the memory of that time, and wish every young’un understood the delight of gradually finding their feet in the world. Not that I didn’t run headlong into life: that I certainly did, from when I left home at eighteen. But the path I chose phased in the intellectual infrastructure young people need to create maturity. Maybe that was luck, maybe something else.
The promsters went for dinner at their local sushi restaurant. Asian food is the fashion, chain restaurants (especially Olive Garden) derided as unimaginative. After that, to the shindig, and then back to the home you see above.
Most of the boys said “thank-you”, or at least make an attempt at communication. But the girls are silent. I don’t know what that means.
One standout moment: when they piled into the car after a night of apparently vigorous dancing, I was reminded again that they are still maturing.
Those. Boys. Stank.

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