Utensil. Me, blog.

As a contributing member of the working world, there are things in life that you consciously long for from your childhood. Maybe it’s having the opportunity to take a mid-afternoon nap. Perhaps it’s a finely prepared meal of Kraft Macaroni, hot dogs, and apple sauce every night instead of having to making dinner yourself. And once, just once, I ‘d like someone at work to ask me to build something out of Legos. Is that too much to ask?

On the other hand, there are some things that don’t require the above daydreaming. There’s a regression of youth that is happening right now in your life, and you don’t even know. True, some parts of life follow a straight line path, with a starting point and a finishing line. Such is the means of transportation: now that you’ve got a car, it is highly unlikely you have the desire to leave it in the garage and crawl to work instead. But there’s other things that follow a cyclical track, and without realizing it, you find yourself back in Square 1. (Can their be squares in a circle?)

Take the art of writing, for example. No, not the ability to compose poetry or pen some poignant prose. (That’s alliteration, friends.) I’m talking about the physical application of a writing utensil to paper. As one progresses through life, his choice of implement evolves on account of sophistication.

When you’re first granted the right to write, you are given crayons. Kids love ‘em, wall-paper-scrubbing mothers hate ‘em. Crayons teach you to stay in the lines and the definition of the phrase. “non-toxic.” They provided the greatest spectrum of shades you’ll ever get to use.

Phase 2 is the world of the pencil. I’m talking big, fat, circumference of your arm pencils. These enter your life in kindergarten, along with green-handled scissors, jars of paste, and those cool neon rulers. In my case, these pencils come equipped with those rubber triangles, so that (in theory) you hold a pencil properly. Guess what? They’re a sham. I still hold a pencil so low that I might as well coat my fingertips in lead and fingerpaint my way to a signature.

In about sixth grade, you get your supply sheet over the summer and lo and behold, pens! Given, they have to be erasable, but now you’re in the big time! You get to apply ink! And, as an added bonus, southpaws get to smear everything they have written across the page, creating a muddled mixture of letters and smudges. Awesome!

Once you hit high school, you apparently no longer make mistakes. (unless your name is Kwame Brown – why did you turn pro again?) Therefore, the “erasable” requirement to your pens is left in your eighth grade locker, and baby, you’re in the world of permanent ink. Sounds great! The only drawback – since high school starts before sunrise, you are a lot less awake when using the aforementioned utensil, thus leaving your clothes permanent ink-ridden when your hand slides off of your forehead during your seven minute nap in homeroom. Umm….or so I hear.

Your arsenal stays pretty constant through college, where having six classes in six different academic buildings pretty much leaves you with whatever you find in the bottom of your book bag or off a bulletin board signup sheet in the hallway. If all else fails, there’s always chalk.

A diploma and a commute later, you’re at work, and you’ve got the supply catalog in front of you. You’ve got a decision to make. You’ve been using pens for the last ten years of your life, and they rarely fail you (mainly because you lose them before they ever run out of ink.) They give you consistency and color. Good ole’ pen.

But yet, a friend from your childhood leaps of the page. That’s right, it’s the pencil! (gratuitous exclamation!) And I’m not talking ultra-trendy mechanical pencil. I’m talking good ole’ Dixon Ticonderoga. There’s just something about the feel of ultra-sharp labor on paper that makes you feel alive. People respect me for my choice of weapon. Call it a preference, I call it a way of life. So like I said, what goes around, comes around.

(You may ask, did you not just skip over the second coming of the noble crayon? No, I implore you, that’s what going to Friendly’s is for.)