Growing up, Easter was all about the scavenger hunts. We would wake up early and pace around our baskets wrapped in festive cellophane, trying to figure out what all was in there, buried beneath the candy. As soon as our parents were up, my brother and I would tear into the baskets, taking inventory of our bounties and searching for that egg-shaped piece of paper with a clue printed very carefully in my mom’s neat handwriting.
We would then scour the apartment looking for the next clue. Even though our apartment was small, and our bedroom wasn’t included (highlighted in blue), the hunt seemed to make the place stretch out as miles of nooks and crannies and crevices where the clue could be. I even remember one year, I had to look up a movie the clue referred to (out of the thousands that lined the east wall of the living room), get the number from the index – the clue was slipped between the tape and the case.
At the end of these hunts, I would find a stuffed bunny (I still remember Butterscotch, which was one of the softest things I’d ever felt up to that point). Those bunnies live in my mom’s storage locker.
It’s easter today and I’m alone in my apartment, drinking cold black coffee and trying to drown out the noise of the party in the courtyard in my complex with morose music as I stare at my stack of DVDs along the south wall of my apartment, knowing there’s no slip of paper hiding between the plastic disc and the plastic case.
But that’s nostalgia for you – it allows you to completely block out the fact that you’re an adult with the warm wonder from childhood. It lets you make excuses as to why every second of your adult life isn’t awesome. And really, there’s no reason why it shouldn’t be.
Take a minute to remember all of those minutes you spent between the powerful fits of child-like wonder and contentment waiting until you were grown up so you could finally do what you want.
So let me ask you this: what are you waiting for?
If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some words that need to be strung together.