Ride the snail

I’m 23 now, and despite my inability to grow a respectable patch of facial hair, practically an adult. I work. I pay bills. I complain about bills. I even look forward to baths and naps and have learned to tolerate, if not enjoy, the taste of mushrooms. (All things which quite repulsed the youthful version of myself).

But I’m not quite ready to relinquish childhood. I still covet the times of yesteryear when laundry would seemingly wash, fold and place itself into its rightful dresser drawer without any doing of my own. I still relish in the occasional round of complete inappropriateness. And when feeling dejected I still find myself just a little tempted to pop a quarter in the mechanical snail with the cowboy hat that sits in front of my local grocery store and go for a ride.



Of course the sight of a six foot four inch tall man riding a mechanical snail while eating an ice cream sandwich might draw some curious looks. Just to grasp the handlebars, I have to tuck my arms close to my chest and reduce my reach to something like that of a tyrannosaurus rex. In order to place my feet in the stirrups on either side of the snail, my knees must extend upwards past my shoulders configuring my lanky frame in most unnatural way. But I’m okay with looking weird. The therapeutic seesawing helps to work out the homework-induced kinks of collegiate life and is a worthy trade off for looking a wee bit foolish.