While back home for Thanksgiving during my first year of college, I joined my father’s extended family for dinner. And I was slotted at the kids’ table.
Can you believe this? Absurd. I was to my family what Leonardo Dicaprio is to the American public: my dumb face cast in the amber of arrested development, incapable of convincing the outside world I've aged in spite of such cosmetic signifiers as facial hair.
Ugh. I can’t say this enough, so I’ll say it again. Uggggggggggh.
What an indignity. “That’s awful,” one friend said to me when I came back to campus that December. “I’m so sorry,” another groaned.
I imagine how I'd deal with sitting at the kids' table now, at 24. Are you, like me, one of those souls whom well-meaning people try to comfort by insisting that it's good to look young—that their skin will remain taut and porcelain as everyone else's sags and wrinkles? I have compiled some tips, and I’d like to share them with you. Let's get started.
I’m sorry to begin with this, but it must happen. This is crucial. First step. Come on. Know what's going on. Demand answers of your host.
If you can’t get out of the situation at hand, look for someone who understands your pain. I have found that this is a real skill one must have in life “in general,” just a rule one must adhere to if you want to navigate being alive—college TA sessions, work meetings, underground trains with screaming men. Externalize your pain. Wear a face of complaint and silent terror, and seek allyship. It's key.
Yeah, you heard me. Gadgets. You know, phones. Tablets. Pagers. Kindle. Gameboy Color. Your Vtech. Show these kids who’s boss. This can go one of two ways: You can distract yourself, pretending you’ve received an important e-missive from a friend. Or, if, you've got more than one gadget in your arsenal, why not offer it to one of the children? You get to decide. If you're a kid, you may as well be...a "cool kid."
Talk about school. What subjects are they taking? Sports? Crushes? Favorite teachers? Locker stories? Visits to the principal's office? Go crazy. Next, bring up some television shows. Movies they've seen lately? Lots to unpack here.
Don’t you love storytelling? Turn the table into the kids' section of Barnes & Noble and be their R.L. Stine. Creep the kids out. It can be about anything. An urban legend, riff on the lore of the Baba Yaga. Keep it in the family. Make something up. Spread a rumor about Uncle Rajesh. Fib a little.
Who said you can’t give these kids some taste? Tell them about your favorite Buffy Sainte Marie album; describe your favorite Dire Straits song.
I’m certain you put some care into what you're wearing, new adult. I’m sure you’ve done away with your Children's Place-esque looks and opted for more chic, elegant clothing. Where’s that bowtie from? Tell the kids the backstory. Those suede shoes? The kids would love to know about that day in Payless.
Bring a Sporcle game to life. Go around the table. Name states, and ask the kids to name capitals. Nebraska? They should know this. Uhhhh, Maine? Kentucky? Wymong? Good luck, boys and girls. This is elementary. Keep track of the kids' progress.
Assign the roles. Offer to play the mute grandfather.
Pull out that dusty SAT practice book that's embedded in your photographic memory; ask about two trains leaving Manitoba in opposite directions. Which will get to their destination first? These brain teasers will drive the kids wild.
Kids love this stuff, especially at the Thanksgiving table. They’re “smarter than you think,” so why not put that to the test? Quiz them. Ask them about the presidents. Talk about some world leaders, past and present.
This is the kids’ table; it's basically a large Fisher Price product. There better be appropriate artistic utensils in your arsenal. Demand them of your host. You’re a kid. This is how you must dine.
It’s a good song.
Who says kids can’t play with their food? Ridiculous. Make a sculpture of mashed potatoes; play mixologist with the soft drinks. Lots of fun.
Yeah. Shit's getting dire here, so it’s time to rebel a little. Infuse some civil disobedience into these rote proceedings. You can even have some fun with it. Whoops! Did I do that? you can say. Laugh a little. Spill some food on the floor, too. Don’t clean it up. You can do anything, so long as anyone lets you. You’re one of the kids now.
Eat some hearty portions of food—you must eat a full meal—before you retreat to the bathroom, dramatically, saying you "need a minute"; make sure your gait reflects your distress.
Be a rugrat. You’re not trying to win the good behavior award. Abandon your sense of propriety. Make a scene.
Pick a pillow and make it your "anxiety pillow." It can be any color. Shape, too—circular, square. So long as it muffles your scream.
Yes, this is good.
Which did I miss? Let me know in the comments.
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