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THE KID IN WELLIES AND FUCK ALL ELSE HAS LIFE MORE FIGURED OUT THAN MOST ADULTS.
You have seen that child.
Stomping through the garden in a pair of wellies, arse hanging out, hair like they have been dragged backwards through a hedge, absolutely delighted with themselves and not remotely concerned that Brenda from next door might have an opinion.
Then somewhere along the way we train that out of them.
Sit properly. Dress properly. Do not be too loud. Do not draw attention to yourself. What will people think? Try to fit in. Stop being silly. Act your age.
And slowly, bit by bit, that fearless little lunatic gets replaced by an adult who checks the room before laughing, changes clothes three times before going out, deletes a post because two people might disagree and spends half their life trying not to upset people they do not even fucking like.
Then you meet an eighty-year-old who has somehow come out the other side.
They wear what they want. Say what they think. Leave the party when they are tired. Eat pudding before dinner. Ignore the phone. Tell people to piss off when required and have absolutely no intention of wasting what little time they have left performing for an audience.
The toddler and the eighty-year-old have arrived at the same conclusion.
Other people’s opinions are mostly background noise.
The child has not learned to care yet.
The old person has finally learned there was never much point.
It is the forty or fifty years in the middle where we make a complete dog’s breakfast of it.
We build personalities around being acceptable. We shrink ourselves to keep rooms comfortable. We stay in jobs, relationships, habits, clothes, friendships and entire bloody lives that stopped fitting years ago because we are terrified somebody might judge us for changing.
Here is the uncomfortable bit.
They are judging you anyway.
Somebody will think you are too loud. Somebody else will think you are too quiet. One person will say you have changed, another will say you never change. You can spend your whole life trying to get unanimous approval from a species that argues about whether pineapple belongs on pizza.
What a fucking waste.
Embracing your inner child does not mean drawing on the walls and shitting behind the sofa.
It means getting some of that unfiltered aliveness back.
Being curious without needing to be clever. Laughing before checking whether the laugh is appropriate. Wearing the thing. Taking the trip. Starting the project. Saying no without producing a twelve-page witness statement. Saying yes because you actually want to, not because you are frightened of disappointing somebody.
It means remembering that play is not childish, joy is not irresponsible and being yourself is not an act of aggression.
You do not need to wait until you are eighty to stop giving a fuck.
You can start now.
Put the metaphorical wellies on.
Leave the trousers off if that is your thing, although perhaps check local laws and whether the Tesco delivery is due.
But get back some of that attitude.
Before life turns you into a polite little version of yourself who never caused trouble, never took the chance, never said what they meant and was very highly thought of by people they barely knew.
The kid did not care.
The old bastard does not care.
The lesson is staring you right in the face.
Stop wasting the middle.