Who's Mature?

I don't know how many of you have done this (I'll bet quite a few) but this morning, I did the "how many marshmallows can I fit in my mouth?" deal. I know, I know. It's childish and stupid and idiotic and strangely enjoyable. Not only did I feel like a total rebel - remember when your mommy wouldn't let you eat twenty marshmallows at once? - but it was really yummy. I hadn't had those delicious, sugary goodnesses in several years. I guess I figured I was too mature and all that jazz. Marshmallows are for kids. I'm a big girl now. I watch Mad Men, not Barney (though that purple dinosaur was my first love). I'm too cool for such things.

Yeah, right.

I've decided it's time to embrace my inner child. To not be ashamed of the fact that I love superhero movies just as much as I love Shakespeare. To not deny the fact that part of the reason Kenneth Branagh is so brilliant is because he managed to make Thor a good movie - and that one really ought to have sucked. I should be proud of my stuffed animal collection. There's no reason why I can't enjoy both Lord Byron and Bill Watterson. Calvin and Hobbes is genius, after all.