When wisdom replaces wonder

The Kitchen Sink
    By Karen Abravanel

Here's a grade-school story problem which is more challenging than it seems: I am nine years younger than my mother was when I was born, and nine years older than my 11-year-old brother. How old am I?

If this were really grade school, the answer would be easy: 20. I might earn a gold star for my solution, or maybe a sticker of a smiling cow standing under the word "Moo-velous!" But in college, answers are never this simple, rarely right or wrong, and often relative. Have I ceased to be a child? Have I turned into an adult? How old am I?

A recent visit to Disney's EPCOT Center made me feel old--and thus more like an adult than ever before. I have been to Disney World three times in the past two decades: once when I was five, once in eighth grade, and once last month. Disney's current ad campaign urges visitors to "remember the magic," and I certainly did--but I had to work harder to enjoy myself.

Despite a series of renovations since my last visit, the rides at EPCOT had lost much of their thrill, and I was often more antsy than awed. My experiences did not gel with my earlier memories. At age five, for example, as we crept through the animatronic dinosaur display, I cried and shielded my face with my grandmother's sleeve. This time, I swear I saw electric wires running down the brontosaurus' tail.

EPCOT was still entertaining, but not for the same reasons as before. Suspicious of Disney's ability to staff each country pavilion with actual citizens of the country, I inquired about the company's recruitment procedure. Devoting myself to details, I searched for the carefully hidden speakers when I heard ambient music, and analyzed the different trash-can styles which distinguish Norway from Morocco or Mexico from Japan.

Compensating for lost naïveté with increased cynicism, I was more entranced by Disney's marketing than enchanted by Disney's magic. I could not overlook the symbolism of a mock Eiffel Tower in southern Florida: ours is truly a small world, it declared, because Disney can re-create anything, anywhere.

Fifteen years before, I ran to get Mickey Mouse's autograph. This time, I made fun of the poor guy inside the Mickey suit, wondering if the Disney powers-that-be ever let him utter a sound during working hours. I felt old because I could no longer accept things at their face value. For the first time, I was not touring EPCOT center as a child; for the first time, I could wait to return.

In contrast, my 11-year-old brother could not wait to board the rides, urging us to wait on the lines and buy the souvenirs. He was old enough to admit that EPCOT was "fake, in a warm sense," but young enough not to care. I envied him.

These college years represent an odd stage in my life, as I straddle the line between childhood and adulthood. I have not officially moved out of my parents' house, but I no longer live there. I do not prepare my own meals, but I decide for myself when and where to eat dinner. I frequently ask my parents for advice, but their rules and curfews no longer apply. These years are exciting, and they are excellent practice for the rest of my life, but I sometimes miss the simplicity of younger days.

Last weekend, I realized that I did not have to travel to Disney World to feel old. I spend one or two Sunday mornings each month advising a youth group, teaching and playing games with children in the third, fourth, and fifth grades. It is hard to believe that the oldest members of my group are half my age, while the youngest members were born in 1990.

Despite new trends and fads, though, the basic elements of children's culture have not really changed since my childhood. Girls still braid each other's hair, while boys still burp at each other. All were duly impressed when I told them I spent my winter break in Disney World.

But as I grow older, I need refresher courses in these basic elements. Last Sunday, an eight-year-old dubbed me "It" in Freeze Tag. I discovered that after several years on tag hiatus, I had all but forgotten the rules. She reminded me, and I quickly calculated how to manipulate the game to let the kids win. So how old am I? I am old enough to understand the secrets of the game, but young enough to find new reasons to play.

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