Listen to this post:
I lost my whimsy when I was 16 years old, a little older than many but younger than others. It was in the front seat of my father’s Pontiac, and afterwards I grew philosophical: “I have lost my whimsy, so today I am a man. I don’t feel any different.” But something had shifted inside me.
I went many years telling people sadly that I lost my whimsy to a pretty girl back when I was 16, but in later years I made a remarkable discovery. Although many tokens of childhood are lost in rites of passage and coming-of-age rituals and the like, it seems that whimsy is not something permanently lost.
One day while sitting and reading a book — or was I walking through a field of wildflowers — or was I walking a somewhat insane dog — I don’t recall the particulars, but I firmly remember stumbling over my lost whimsy and exclaiming, “What are YOU doing there?” It didn’t reply at first, it just up and wrapped itself around my heart and dragged me in another direction.
“My mother used to say you must be oh-so-smart or oh-so-pleasant. Well, for years I was smart. I recommend pleasant,” my lost whimsy murmured in a voice that sounded very much like James Stewart being Elwood P. Dowd. “I recommend pleasant, too, you oh-so-smart old man.”
“I’m not an old man,” I protested.
“Look in the mirror,” my whimsy said, and so I did. And lo and behold, I saw an old face full of wrinkles caused by being oh-so-smart. That was the moment I transformed, just like Ebenezer Scrooge or Elwood P. Dowd himself. Of course, deep down, I am still oh-so-smart, but given the choice I realize that oh-so-pleasant keeps me young.
