By Tandy Versyp
On Nov. 29 I will turn 22 – an age of no importance. When the clock strikes midnight, nothing will change – although there is the off chance that I’ll get a sweet Gap coupon in the mail on my birthday, which would be awesome, because a baby face like mine is hard to take seriously unless it is dressed in old-fashioned clothing. Any hip or youthful attire makes me look like a freshly conceived zygote.
While I was surfing the Internet for discount sweater vests, my fifty-two-year-old father called to tell me that Cailey, my niece, was distressed because she couldn’t be at my upcoming birthday party. She’s five.
“Hi, Cailey.”
“Hello,” she said.
This is the same niece who, after watching “Wall-E,” came out of the theater restroom with tears streaking her round cheeks and her chocolate brown hair plastering her head. She was upset because, in the film, Wall-E left his cockroach friend on Earth. Her sensitive, caring mind couldn’t comprehend why he would just leave his buddy.
It was agony for her until I tucked her in at night and explained that the cockroach couldn’t breath in space, so Wall-E was being a good friend. And he came back to play at the end of the movie, so everything was fine. She accepted this as she sucked her thumb and fell asleep.
“How are you?” I asked.
“Oh, good. We are driving to Olive Garden,” she quietly answered.
“Are you going to get some noodles?”
“We’ll see,” she sighed. Silence.
“Cailey, it’s OK that you can’t come to my birthday party.” More silence. “I’m only turning 22. It’s not a big deal. Really, it doesn’t mean anything. It’s like taking a bath or eating squash. I wish you could come, but it’s OK.”
“I know.”
I could feel her soft, expressive brow furrow. “Well, how is school?”
“Good.”
“What are you learning?”
“To write my letters.” She was back to her professional composure.
“What letters can you write?”
Cailey excitedly half-yelled the letters of the alphabet. All 26.
“That’s really good. You know, I learned how to write letters when I was your age, and now I’m a writer. What do you want to be when you grow up?”
“A baby-sitter!” she shouted.
“Oh, well that’s,” I cringed a little bit.
“Or an animal doctor!”
“That’s my girl,” I said with a wave of Feminism. “So you like animals a lot?”
“Yes,” she giggled.
“Well, have you ever seen ‘Milo and Otis’? I love that movie. It’s probably one of my favorites.”
“Really?” she smiled. “Do you know what?”
“What?”
“Pop and Gran have that movie at their house! I’m going to watch it as soon as we get done eating noodles!”
“Do you know it took seven years to make that film?” I spouted enthusiastically. Her eager demeanor is infectious.
“No.”
“That’s a long time, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I’m only 5.”
“Yeah, sometimes it takes a long time to make something beautiful.”
Cailey was silent. She didn’t understand.
“Baby, you can be anything you want. You just have to work hard. Very hard. See, I’m still in school. Working hard.”
“You’re still in school?” she laughed.
“Thanks for rubbing that in, Cailey.”
“What?” She doesn’t get my sense of humor yet.
“Nothing.”
“Uncle Tandy, maybe I can send you a present and a card for your birthday.”
“That’s OK. You can just call me. I’d just like to hear your voice.”
“Yeah, but I think a present would be better,” she reasoned. “Well, I have to go. Goodbye.” Her conscience was clear.
“Bye. I love you.” I really do.
“Love you too,” she whispered and handed the phone back to my father.
Staring at a gray argyle sweater on bluefly.com, I wanted to be five again. Wear cowboy boots with purple parachute pants? Sure. Only eat hot dogs and Neapolitan ice cream? Great. Make inconsequential decisions about life? Fan-freakin’-tastic. Because soon every decision is consequential.
In a sudden state of histrionics, I realized 22 was important.
It’s an age of decision. There’s nothing to blame anymore for your failures – your parents, your professors, your inhibitions. It’s go hard or go home. All or nothing. And countless other gutsy clichés. Because all those childhood dreams and expectations are at stake. 22 is when you decide to be trivial or crucial. Otherwise, it will be to late to choose.
Since I had about two weeks left to entertain trifles, I curled up watching “The Adventures of Milo and Otis.” As Milo drifted down the river in a wooden box with Otis chasing after him on dry land, I took a slow, deep breath and cheered them on.
