Tonight my son, in a pathetic attempt to divert my attention from making him go to bed, started in on the mimic-er. I said, “Common, let’s go, get moving.” He said, “Common, let’s go, get moving.” I said, “Oh the mimicker!” He said, “Oh the mimicker!” We then bantered back and forth till I outwitted him, reversed the mimic-er (because I have a way grander intellect than any snot-nosed offspring-o mine) and off to bed he went.
This game led me to think about our life of imitating. We begin very early in life imitating others. In our early years we imitate our parents in a variety of ways. We imitate their speech, the way they eat, the way they walk, their routines, everything they do, we imitate it. We mimic them. Most people call this learning, but really it is imitation.
The action of copying people carries over into adulthood. We copy those we think are successful, those who are good at sports, those who are enlightened, etc. Hell…I even copied the Mimic-er game from friends who did it in college.
I have spent much of my life trying to become a better person through the art of mimicry. I watch those I think are successful at work and act like them to try to ascend the corporate latter, I observe successfully wealthy people, and try to invest like them, I see good parents and attempt to mold myself to be like them, and it goes on and on. This is an evolving part of becoming a better you.
Then all at once, you find yourself mimicking a child, and you soon realize that they are the ones who have it all right. They don’t give two squirrel’s nuts about wealth, climbing the corporate ladder, molding oneself to reach a higher level, etc. They don’t care about these things because they are already there. They reside on this higher plane, this ascended level we strive for, the one they tell you about in church. All children have the Art of Ascension for Dummies memorized. We all have it as kids, and the world slowly tugs the book from our grasp and buries it deep in the ground next to Jimmy Hoffa.
Prior to the mimicker game this evening, my son asked me to play “patty-cake” with my feet. I was able to make it through 1 whole game of “patty-cake patty-cake baker’s man” with my crusty Barney Rubble feet. My wife participated and found it quite amusing because this exercise was excruciating to my flabby stomach that wished that I’d mimic some ripped ultimate fighter on a more frequent basis.
F-it! I’d much rather play some patty cake with my feet and drink a beer than mimic some douche-bag with ripped abs, although I’m still slightly jealous. Stop mimicking me you douche-bags!
