So, on occasion, I like to act the part .
When my daughter launches into one of her hip-hop moves, I join in. Sandlot baseball or tossing the Frisbee or football is a staple with the nieces and nephews. I attempt personal records on the pogo stick.
And it’s nothing for me to tear out of a supermarket and ride a grocery cart to the car.
Recently, I’ve become infatuated with something I received for Christmas.
It’s a remote-control helicopter.
Weighing all of a couple of ounces, it fits in the palm of your hand. But man, can it fly.
When I need a pick-me-up, I take it for a spin.
I practice takeoffs, landings, maneuvering it close to the ceiling and floor. The breeze from the rotors hits my face, rustling the pages of nearby magazines, scaring the bejesus out the cat.
Neck craned, I stare in wonder.
I am a boy again, and it feels good.