Adventure

The bad part about my son getting sick is that he’s sick and my heart breaks with each cough and hasty trip to the bathroom. The good part about my son getting sick is that I often get to take a day off work and stay home to help him recuperate.

That’s how I spent last Thursday. Him and I together on the sofa, he with a blanket and his DS, me with pen and paper. The goal was a simple one—to get him better, and to get me a thousand words on my next novel.

Of course, goals seem to fly out the window when it comes to tending to a sick child. Especially when that child is more intent to play and talk than to rest and heal. We reached an agreement when we both decided watching a movie was what we really wanted to do. He voted for Star Wars. I voted for Lord of the Rings. We compromised for Pirates of the Caribbean.

I actually thought we’d watch the movie, he being sick and all. But no. My son is much like myself in that he’s quiet unless around someone he knows well. And since he knows me well…

“Daddy?”

“Yeah bud?”

“Would you rather be Jack Sparrow or Captain Barbossa?”

“Jack,” I said. My answer was both immediate and a little embarrassing. I didn’t want my son to think I spend a lot of time thinking about such things. Which I do. “I guess, I mean. I guess Jack. Never thought about it, though.”

“I’d rather be Jack, too.”

The movie went on. Cannonballs and swords and cries of “Arrgh!”

Then, “Daddy?”

“Yeah bud?”

“Would you rather be a cursed pirate or a girl?”

“A cursed pirate.”

“Me, too. Wanna know why?”

“Tell me.”

“Because cursed pirates are cool and girls are not.”

“Maybe. But one day you’re gonna think girls are cool.”

More movie. A buried treasure. A battle at sea. But by then those things didn’t matter much because my son had begun playing his favorite game.

Would You Rather.

It started with a book he brought home from school one day filled with all sorts of questions. Would you rather this or would you rather that. Some were comical—Would you rather eat boogers or lick a frog’s face? Others were difficult—Would you rather hit a game-winning homerun or score a game-winning touchdown? A few were even thoughtful—Would you rather make someone’s wish come true or make your own wish come true?

You get the idea. He was enthralled. And as I subscribe to the philosophy of I-don’t-care-what-you-read-as-long-as-it’s-not-Tiger Beat when it comes to my kids, I allowed it.

Sometimes I think that philosophy needs to be reexamined.

Because after an entire day of playing Would You Rather, I decided I Would Rather Not.

Then again, I discovered that an entire day of playing Would You Rather allowed me a long look into the way my son sees the world and the way he sees himself. And by that I don’t mean just that he’d rather be a fish rather than a person because “If I was a fish, I could pee anywhere.”

Other things. Deeper things.

Things like the fact that he’d rather live an exciting life than a long life. And that he’d rather wait for spring than wait for winter.

And my favorite—that he’d rather have me as a dad than even Captain Jack Sparrow.

I suppose in a way games such as this play an important role in a young child’s life. It gets them used to making choices, and life is nothing but a series of choices.

Would you rather be someone else or your best self?

Would you rather not risk failure or chase your dreams?

Would you rather suffer a broken heart or never dare to love?

Would you rather spend your eternity with God or apart from Him?

See what I mean? Choices. That’s what life is all about. That’s where our battles are fought.

Where our present is made and our future fashioned.

My mailman—mail lady, actually—says that approximately four out of every seven pieces of mail she delivers to my neighborhood could be classified as junk. She shakes her head at the fact that most of her work goes straight from the mailbox to the garbage can.

I thought about that yesterday while walking to the porch from the mailbox, a handful of letters in my grasp. Most were destined for recycling (I thought the mail lady would somehow feel better knowing that, and I promised myself I’d tell her next time she came around). But even that didn’t seem to do all her hard work justice. So I made it a point to sit and open each and every letter. Read them, even. Then I could toss them away without feeling so guilty.

There was the usual fare—satellite television offers, a flyer from the local furniture store, a newsletter from a church my family visited five years ago.

But it was the last letter that caught my attention. A thick, linen envelope, my name embossed with gold letters on the front. Fancy for junk mail.

The return address was just that—an address. I tore it open and read:

“Dear Friend.”

Not exactly personable. Then again, junk mail never is. But then:

“Whether you realize it or not, you’re a person of influence.”

Well now, that’s more like it.

“You live with passion and purpose”—

I do!

—“encouraging and helping others”—

Yes!

—“and building a legacy for your family and future generations—”

Okay, I’ll buy that.

Way down in the fourth paragraph, I finally realized what they were getting at. It was a magazine advertisement, one “for people just like you” that offered a monthly assortment of “inspiring stories from others like you who deserve to live a hopeful, vibrant life.”

I’ll admit, it sounded interesting. Which is why I actually finished the letter. Then I turned to the inserts (full color, mind you) of sample articles, which to my surprise seemed overly populated by elderly people.

That’s when I discovered the publication’s name.

Mature Living.

And that’s when I discovered exactly what had happened.

I’d just been solicited for an old folks magazine.

I stood there in the middle of my living room, flabbergasted. Surely this was some mistake. Me? No. Surely not. I’m not old. Sure, in the minds of some I could be consider older. But not old. And yeah, I’m a little thin on top, but a lot of guys are, guys younger than me, and besides I have a tattoo and shop at Abercombie & Fitch. Old people don’t do that.

But it still bugged me. My wife said I wasn’t old, though I thought that was likely because she’s older than I am and telling me I was would make her old by proxy. My kids said I was old—“Ancient,” said my daughter—but to them, anyone over twenty is old.

I was at a loss. Why were the people at Mature Living picking on me? My family said to let it go—“Bein’ mad’s not good for your heart, Daddy,” said my daughter—but I couldn’t. So I did what any sane person would do. I called the number at the end of the letter and asked them how they got my name.

It was a lady’s voice on the other end of the line—a young voice, though I suddenly realized that young to me was twenty-five. Megan, she said. Can I help you?

“Yes.” I cleared my throat, suddenly wondering what in the world I was doing. “Megan. Hi. My name is Billy.” (Billy being a very youngish name.) “I just received one of your advertisements in the mail.”

“Wonderful!” said Megan. “Would you like to begin a subscription.”

“No. No Megan, I would not. I just need to know how you got my name. Is there some old people’s database? Do you buy your names from pharmacies or something? Because I picked up a prescription for my dad the other day, and that wasn’t for me.”

Megan didn’t know what to say to that. Didn’t know where the names came from, either.

“Are you sure you don’t want to begin a subscription?” she asked.

“No. I mean yes. Yes, Megan, I am sure. I am not mature. Do you hear me?”

And then I hung up.

I’m not sure what Megan thought of that, but she likely had quite a story to tell during her break.

It’s funny how we think we’re comfortable with who and where we are in this life, and how quickly we are faced with the truth.

I won’t make that mistake again. Next time, all the junk mail’s going straight to the trash.

This post is part of the One Word at a Time Blog Carnival: Adventure. To read more adventurous posts, visit my friend Peter Pollock at PeterPollock.com