i couldn’t be

It's always amazing to me how the minds of children work.

After spending yesterday at the zoo, my friend’s grandson Aras has become quite interested in all things creepy-crawly. Spiders. Snakes. Ticks. Scorpions. Centipedes. You name it — if it's sure to make you feel itchy and it'll freak out the girls, color him curious.

As a result, I wasn't at all surprised when he had his grandmother FaceTime me last night so that he could show me several books about animals and insects that he'd purchased before leaving the zoo.

Fast-forward to this morning. Smack-dab in the middle of another FaceTime call to continue our spider discussion, he paused on the subject long enough to pose a question: "What if days started with different letters?"

He then proceeded to ramble off the following: Ariday, Briday, Criday, Driday, Eriday, Friday (“Nevermind. It’s already taken.”), Griday, Hriday, Iriday, Jriday, Kriday, Lriday, Mriday, Nriday, Oriday, Priday, Qriday, Rriday, Sriday, Triday, Uriday, Vriday, Wriday, Xriday, Yriday, and Zriday.

Ahh, the wonder of being a child.

Eager to end my tour into arachnophobia, I explained that sadly, only Ariday (day of little or no rain), Driday (yet another day of little or no rain), and Triday (day of fulfilling your potential) made sense. My always-spot-on-for-a-five-year-old logic was evidently convincing enough that he abandoned that method of thought and went back to reading his books.

Later, over a stack of pancakes, they called once again with yet another question. Always the inquisitive one, he asked, "You like to write books and look at things, but what couldn’t you be?

"Yes," his grandmother chimed in, "what couldn't you be?"

What couldn't I be??

[This is the moment where you picture me looking up from the computer, into the sky, and the image becomes all wavy and dreamlike as I imagine exactly what I couldn't do.]

I then explained that I couldn’t be a lot of things.

I couldn’t be your money launderer. Or your launderer for that matter. Any kind of laundering, I'm not doing. If it requires soap or detergent or some sort of Snuggle fabric softener or involves the depositing of money into one account in preparation of spending it from another account in preparation of buying corn meal that I can then sell on the corn meal black market in an attempt to make dirty money clean again — I have to decline. There’s no way I could do this. No way, no how.

I couldn’t be your hand-latched lifter-upper. No matter what’s in that tree or over that wall or up in the attic, there’s something I just can't deal with when you ask me to latch both hands together so I can form a human step for your dirty shoe. Use a step ladder. Someone else’s back. Find a small child. But I can’t support the use of my hands for your feet. Nope, can’t do it.

I couldn’t be your new recipe guinea pig. No matter how well you think you follow the recipe and no matter how perfect it looks, I can’t be the girl who takes the first taste. Because even if the first taste is really good, no matter what I say I'm in for a world of pain. Did I like it? Not like it enough? Did I not smile when I tasted it? Did I not sniff in the aroma and make a pleasant-looking facial expression? Did I not roll it around in my mouth long enough to taste the whole experience of your brand-new hobby? I refuse. I cannot. No sir.

I couldn’t be your high-five buddy. Nuh-uh. Although I’m fully in support of you finishing your beer, tripping a kid on the sidewalk, eating a bag of Cheetos in one big bite, or burping the alphabet — I cannot give you the hi-five. It's from a day that has passed us by, dear friend, and no matter how cool the slapping sound can be, I cannot bring myself to raise my arm in celebration of all things food, bullying, and Cheetos.

These are just some of the things I believe I couldn’t be.

I couldn’t be your backscratcher or your flat tire fixer. I couldn’t be your back waxer or your dog groomer. I couldn’t be your racquetball buddy or your workout spotter. I couldn’t be your haircutter or your neck trimmer. I couldn’t be your comic sidekick, the creator of your theme music, the gal who says nothing even though you stink, your “please watch my vacation video” buddy, your shot-giver, your furniture mover, your cookie-snatcher, your floor-sweeper, or your friend who enjoys hearing you read your poetry.

There are some things that you'd probably not want me to be anyway.

I couldn’t be your food chewer, your backseat driver, your fruit juicer, your lazy trainer, your “bad with numbers” accountant, your “the man is the King of the Castle” marriage counselor, your hockey coach or your live-in, out of work, unemployed pool girl.

Sure, there are more things that I couldn’t be.

But with the world the way it is, and the lack of motivation already hovering above society like an evil that cannot be defeated — is it really worth telling you about how I can't do this and I can't do that? Is it really worth denying myself potential chapters in my life just because a question was asked over a mound of pancakes?

I think not.