It has always felt a little surreal growing older.
My memories of my childhood are a blur of endless summer days playing outside with the neighborhood kids, riding to grade school on my bike, going to Sunday School in my parents’ Chevrolet, staying all night at Grandma’s house, Christmases, birthdays, reading comic books, and listening to Monkees records.
Somewhere around 12 or 13 years of age I slowly became aware that, even though I still felt like a little kid inside, I was getting bigger on the outside. I was awkward and clumsy as I grew into my new size. To add to my embarrassment, pimples started breaking out on my face—especially on the tip of my nose—and my voice started to change, getting lower but unexpectedly squeaking up an octave at the worst moments—like whenever I tried to talk to a girl. At some point during that time, I had to admit to myself that I wasn’t a little kid anymore.
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