Your windows are down and the sun is shining and your music shuffle produces Wildflower by The Cult. And as it plays, you are suddenly transported to 1987, which was the last time this song was playing as you were cruising down Seawall Blvd with the windows down. And you’re once again in the passenger seat of Ben Avivi’s mother’s crimson Mercury Cougar. And your whole life is ahead of you, and it’s full of wonder and terror, possibilities and probabilities, and you can make sense of none of it, or how awesome it will be. You’re simply content to have the sun shining on your skin while a great song is playing. And a voice breaks in, and it’s your daughter, and she’s asking if you’re having fun. And your answer is in the wind, and the sound of the surf, and the four pairs of toes wriggling in their flip flops.
Then you’re back in the room to change. And you want to capture your recent thoughts in text, but have to explain to your daughter that you’re a 41 year-old man who has spent exactly zero time debating the merits of braid vs ponytail vs bun, so she’s going to have to figure that shit out herself. And there are words you’re searching for as you change into your swimsuit, but you lose them forever when you hear your four-year-old sigh behind you and wistfully say “I hate giant parent butts”.