Crazy Is as Crazy Does?
My safe childhood kept my wild under wraps. And that might have been a good thing…
Growing up in a peaceful suburb in one of the safest countries in Europe, I’m afraid to admit that my childhood was just that. Safe.
The crazy stuff I did involves taking the other neighborhood kids with me on semi-dangerous adventures:
I made them all climb the fire escapes of a nearby office building to be threatened by the other parents that I couldn’t play with their kids anymore.
Lisa and I ran away from preschool, lied to her mom, and spent the afternoon rubbing ourselves in Tiger balm, reveling in the strange tingly sensations while peeking out behind her curtains where our class was searching for us.
Beth and I attempted to “whitewater-raft” down the local “river” in my beach-rubber boat. We survived. The boat didn’t.
My cousin, John, and I spent an evening hacking at his freshly painted bedroom wall with butter knives as part of a genius plan to install stained glass windows.
I initiated mystical rituals in the empty storage units in our neighborhood and invited the other kids to naked Ouija board sessions.
