From time to time, Torin and I visit random stores after leaving mommy at her work. These stops afford us valuable out-of-the-house exposure and squelch the monotony of being overly-routined.
As I eye Torin bouncing up and down the aisles, my bosom swells with elation at the sight of destruction by baby. Actions that would at least cause store chaos and prompt expulsion when perpetrated by me (an adult) are actually tolerated, if not celebrated, when done by my squirmy toddler. “How cute is that!” exclaim fellow shoppers and store attendants, admiring the swiftness and effectiveness of Torin’s toy-tampering, junk-jumbling, merchandise-meddling, package-penetrating behavior. If curiosity were an art stroked on canvas, Torin would be Picaso—brushing Cubism everywhere he scampers.
I envy the separate set of rules applied to him and others of his kind. Freedom is much more complete for them. As age increases, the cage size decreases; an older dog has less space in his kennel than when a pup. Or maybe it’s just the ultra-thinning of lines—so that they are so very easily crossed as to therefore exist to confine us with exactitude.
In a modern world so defined by rules, laws, and attempts of order and with the populous perpetually cognizant and wary of dangers both foreign and abroad, I secretly house my own WMD. Watching Torin terrorize makes me devilishly giddy inside. I can cross the line, experience freedom, and destroy—all by proxy through my immune-to-all-laws terrorist.
Who says you can't like terrorists? Nothing wrong with mine.
No comments:
Post a Comment