Over the weekend, Bridgette and I attended the birthday party of our friend Dylan. For those of you who don’t know him, Dylan is a friendly, talkative guy with an odd habit of throwing his body to the ground when he gets excited. He also likes trains and pooping into the toilet.
So Dylan is four now. Having dealt with the obligatory business at hand, let us proceed to discuss more sophisticated, adult fares.
Todd and I were intruigued by the project undertaken at the party – painting wooden racecars. Once the children were done painting, we took a moment to gaze longingly at their handiwork and reminisce about our fleeting childhood that has forever vanished. Then Dylan’s dad Ryan burst in on us right in the middle of our sadness.
Overwhelmed by the grim reality of time’s passage, a haze of melancholy set over me. Unable to shake it, I set myself down amidst the festivities in hopes that some of the frolicking gaiety might penetrate my gloom and allow me to experience even the most momentary reprieve. However, the efforts of the screaming, grubby-cheeked partygoers was for naught, as I sat alone – a sullen, wistful, bearded man in a sea of bright-eyed, youthful life.
At that point, all the colorful balloons in the world would not have been enough to lift my spirits.
Discarding my frivolous balloon hat in favor of a more appropriate balloon sword, I began wandering about the party in search of companionship. With my wife deep in earnest lady-discussion and the other men deep in responsibility-avoidance mode, I towered alone amongst the children. A pathetic, solitary figure armed with a balloon weapon and a Master’s degree.
The cake was good though.