By any standard of measurement more recent than that of Paleolithic man, I am – at 28 years old – very much in the prime of my life.
Recently, however, wistfulness started to wrap its first tendrils around my brain when I realized that, try as I might, I can’t see shapes in clouds anymore.
Growing up, of course, my mind could sculpt the skies with a skill that Michelangelo would have applauded. Within seconds of looking up, I would see fleets of pirate ships, squadrons of dragons and vaporous giants by the hundreds.
Now, I can stare into the blue until my eyes sting, but all I see is so much suspended water. Of course, it’s always possible that I’ve just had a run of bad, uncooperative clouds, but I have the sinking suspicion that isn’t the case.
To some people, becoming less skilled in this particular area might seem like a nonissue or maybe a much-needed sign that I’m finally shrugging off the idle fancies of youth. I say that, if this is part of being an adult, I’d gladly give up being able to eat cookies and gummy bears for dinner in favor of giving my mind’s eye the Lasik surgery it apparently needs so desperately.