The Years of Living Nakedly :: Personal Narrative Papers

The Years of Living NakedlyIts a big night for my parents. The friends have come over. The popcorn is popped and buttered and salted. Lively conversation coasts from the living way and into the kitchen where Im planning my floor show. Why do old people aim about and gab and play Monopoly when they could simply sit back off and let me amuse them? Who missions about who owns Marvin Gardens or who gets to be the Scotty Dog? Its Friday night, and all my parents croup think to do is invite their friends over to play out their documentary estate fantasies in a languid waltz of little discolour plastic houses. Perhaps Im just jealous because the Monopoly box is always cruelly out of my reach on the top shelf when I extremity to play -- as if I dont know enough not to get off a game piece. At any rate, its time for variety. I slipperiness down buck, saddle my wooden, wheeled, bright yellow Playschool giraffe and flutter into the living room. Adult heads turn and eyes squint as che eks dissever into smiles. I bear down hard as my wheels abruptly proper the green shag rug and strain to plow on through. This is the minute Ive been training for. If I dont make at least one recognize circuit around the coffee table the whole venture go forth have been wasted. However, before my round is even half way fini cast, its perspicuous that Ive reached my goal. I am the center of attention. Who needs board games and popcorn when youve got a naked kid and his wooden giraffe? My victory is short-lived, though. Amid chuckles and sniggers, Mom apace scoops me up and Dad impounds my ride, but the damage has been done. After my little cabaret, Monopoly leave alone pale in comparison. In short order I bring out myself doing time behind the netted walls of my play penitentiary, my senses still reeling from the heady alcoholism of a job well done. Let Mom and Dad tromp back to their game. Once I bust out of the stir, no get-together in township will be safe from my naked abandon. Whatever happened to the carefree years when we were young and didnt care what other people thought of us? When I was a little kid I wore absurdly generic clothes, shed them whenever my parents had company, scratched myself whenever I had an itch, and generally worked all manner of tomfoolery without any care as to what others would think.