KNOW WORRIES #15 - "The Good Old Days (When I Was a Slightly Bigger Idiot)

Im which I miss not knowing so many things...

I miss being dumb. Actually, let me qualify that a little. I miss being dumb-er, because I’m still pretty dumb, to be fair. Like last week, I accidentally shoplifted a pre-made turkey sandwich and a bag of peppered beef jerky from my local Wawa. Now, let me explain. When I went to pay for said items, I realized I didn’t have my wallet, and so I went out to the car to get. Luckily, it was right where I thought it would be. Unluckily, someone texted me while I was there, and after ignoring that text, I played around on my phone for God knows how long, completely forgot what was happening, and just kind of drove home.

So, that was pretty dumb, but I’m no criminal (allegedly). And a turkey sandwich is what it is, but beef jerky is a serious high-ticket item these days, so I did what I had to do to make it right. I went back the next day and rung up the same two items at the self-checkout with the intention of leaving them in the store, thereby paying for what I stole (allegedly). That way, everything’s fine, and nobody has to know how dumb I am, which is ideal. But as I was leaving, one of the employees saw me and was like “Hey man, you forgot your stuff,” and I was too embarrassed to tell him what I was actually doing, so I just took it and left. Again. And just kind of drove home. Again. So now I have to live with the shame of that forever. Which is also pretty dumb.

Okay, maybe dumb isn’t really the right word. Honestly, I don’t even like that word. It’s clunky and reductive, and let’s face it…we’re all pretty dumb sometimes. Even now, I have literally no idea where my shoes are. At all. Don’t even know if they’re in the house. And my husband, who is a brilliant person, has the functional IQ of a poorly watered Ficus if he stays up even a single minute past his bedtime. So, let’s reshape this discussion a bit. I think what I’m really trying to say is that I miss…not knowing so many things.

I simply know too much. And that’s not even to say I know more than most people, because in the grand scheme of things, I don’t. I’m just saying that the number of things I know, irrespective of the number of things anybody else knows, feels like too many things. It is an overwhelming, nigh unacceptable number of things. It is a dead camel buried in straws. And yet, every single day, I find out even more things, and so many of those things make me want to throw up in my mouth a little bit (existentially speaking). And frankly, I miss only getting to taste my dinner once.

Now, I don’t want to go back to knowing nothing, because that’s probably not a whole lot of fun, though it might be a nice break. And that’s because there are definitely some things I really enjoy knowing. For instance, I can list all 36 kings of Gondor in chronological order to the tune of Mambo #5, which is either the best party trick ever or the worst party trick ever depending on the party. And I can also sing every word to Paul Simon’s You Can Call Me Al in German. Do I speak German? I do not. Was covid lockdown a long and desperately lonely time for me? You be the judge, because all I have to say about that is Ich brauche eine fotomöglichkeit. Ich möchte eine chance auf erlösung. Ich möchte nicht als zeichentrickfilm enden auf einem cartoon-friedhof.

So, there’s definitely a sweet spot between knowing zero things and knowing too many things. And if I recall, that sweet spot is somewhere between like 5 and 9 years old, which is pretty unfortunate for everyone reading and writing this, because that ship has sailed into the Bermuda triangle, which is fitting, because that doesn’t seem to be a thing anymore either. Those are the very best years, because those are the years when you know just enough about the world to be absolutely obsessed with the very best parts of it, but not enough to understand that you’re also kind of an idiot. And being kind of an idiot with an obsession is a very powerful thing. A little bit of Anardil in my life. A little bit of Ostoher by my side.

At that age, the whole world is feeding you the very best pieces of itself, and your limitless little mind is just explodingwith stories and dreams and impossible things. It’s pure and beautiful, and it’s absolutely central to who we are as human beings. And so, you fall in love with this world, because why wouldn’t you? And you want to learn everything about it, so you try. And then one day, you begin to actually understand it, and that’s when it becomes too many things. And it doesn’t feel good. And you try to cope as best you can, but sooner or later, we all find ourselves at the bottom of a bag of ill-gotten beef jerky.

It's like the middle piece of a tray of brownies. The very best piece. Gooey and chocolatey and perfect and no nasty dry crust. Now, imagine you’ve been getting that middle piece your whole life. Every single time anybody ever made some brownies, you’ve been the one to get that piece. You’d be like, “This is great and obviously this is how it’s always going to be.” And then one day, you get a little too curious, and you ask who’s been eating all the gross edge pieces this whole time, only to find out they’ve actually been saving them all for you all along. Now, eat up. This is how you live now.

But those middle piece years. Those middle piece years are the best. They’re magic. Those are the years when the world is your oyster, and not just in a “these are too expensive for me to enjoy now” kinda way either. It’s your oyster, and you don’t even have to pretend to like the taste just to impress your foodie friends, because there’s nothing inside but pearls. Just Santa Claus and dragons and mermaids and princesses and wookies as far as the eye can see. And every day is a top-secret mission. And every night is a trip to another planet. And the best part of is nobody ever tells you you’re being a little idiot, because being a little idiot is also super cute if you’re young enough.

When I was a kid, I remember watching The Three Amigos, and there was a scene where somebody got shot and did a very dramatic fall off a very high roof, much like you see in westerns all the time. And I have a very distinct memory of thinking to myself, “Wow. These actors must make so much money. Like, if they’re gonna agree to get shot and die like that, they must get paid enough to take care of their families forever now that they’re gone.” And during the “In memoriam” segment of the Oscars, I used to cry my little eyes out because I thought those actors all died from being shot in movies that year. And that, my friends, is exactly the kind of idiot I miss being. Just smart enough to be wrong about everything in the very best way.

I mean, I thought I could be a ninja. Like, professionally. I honestly thought that if I worked hard enough I could one day be an actual ninja. A Japanese assassin. From feudal Japan. I wanted it so badly that when people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would tell them, “I want to be a ninja.” And do you know what they would say? They would say, “I think you’d make a great ninja.” And I’d be like, “I know,” because I was an adorable little idiot. And now that I’m significantly less adorable, nobody even asks anymore. Honestly, they don’t even care if I know karate at all. Which I don’t. So that works out okay.

And now I ask myself, “Do I even really want to be a ninja anymore? And the answer is…absolutely not. That sounds like a lot of work, if I’m honest. And I just feel like those black robes would be a mess around all this dog hair. And then there’s the whole furniture thing too. Like, I’m not sure exactly how much furniture you’re allowed to accidentally bump into on a daily basis as a professional ninja, but I feel like I’m well over the quota. I don’t know, I just don’t think it would work. The world has changed. Like you can’t even dress up as a ninja for fun anymore without everybody at work being all weird about it. Actually, I guess you can, but probably only once per job (allegedly).

There was just so much joy in not understanding things. And I miss that. Because the other side of that coin is almost too much to bear sometimes, expecially these days. So, what do we do? What do we do, now that we’re the suckers making the brownies? I’ll tell you what we do. We make time to be idiots again. We make our own brownies. Grown-up brownies. And then we make a few cocktails. Maybe even an espresso martini or two (four). And once we’re niiiice and stupid again, we tell each other how badly we want to be ninjas when we grow up.

I still haven’t decided whether that last paragraph is a metaphor or not, but I really felt like I was onto something. Especially with that “make time to be an idiot” bit. Because, if you think about it, that’s pretty much what I do here every week. I make time to be an adorable little idiot again. And nobody’s told me to stop yet. And you know what? It’s kind of helping. So cheers to you, and who wants a brownie?