We had company over, neighbours. Cooked a big turkey with all the fixings.
Kids, running around, screaming, going up and down stairs, somehow not seriously mutilating themselves or otherwise providing the local emergency ward with cases that'll wake interns up, in a cold sweat, wondering why they didn't go into cabinetry like their brother-in-law.
And the adults, sitting around the table, drinking, having at times awkward, at times HI-larious conversations that invariably revolve around kids or movies or any host of safe topics. If there's one thing you want to avoid, is having icy relations with your neighbours. So as much as you want to discuss fundamentalist Christianity and how it's slowing eroding the scientific rigour in teaching our youth, you realize it's better to keep your mouth shut so you can ask Hank for a powerdrill when you need to hang yet enough shelfing system with an unpronounceable name sold by a European multinational.
I had to go upstairs, to check the internets about whether Bull, from "Night Court", is dead (he's not, his latest project DaZe: Vol. Too (sic) - NonSeNse has a tagline I envy with every fibre of my being: "A post modern avant guard dramedy musical non-musical told nonlinearly"; I kid you not). Going up the very short flight of stairs, I can hear the random outbreaks of laughter from the adults, a group which I shockingly belong. Not without denial. But that sound is filled with nostalgia. Going over to some 'family friends', while being forced to interact with kids that are just too weird and then you become best friends 1 hour in and then can't believe you have to leave in another 3 hours; the adults laughing over some opaque reference about things that are quite obviously not funny. That sense of contentment and plenty that would amaze anyone in the developing world, or anyone from the 18th Century, I suppose.
So, I get upstairs, and the neighbours kids are kind of in a half crouch, giving me that wary look that only adults get, and only from kids who feel that the adult might have some jurisdiction. It's a Sylvester looking at Tweety Bird's dear old owner as he has Tweety grasped in a death grip. The kids are jumping off the futon onto some pillows. Hey, whatever doesn't severe crucial vertebrae only makes you stronger, is my motto. But it's that look. That undeniable expectant stare that reminds me with the force of a tsunami in a Bruckheimer film, that , dear god, I'm an adult.