Bet you’ll think this is childish. I don’t really care.

After all, that’s the point of this column.

You see, I’m just sitting around here wishing I were seven again. I know you 7-year-olds out there find this hard to believe, but it’s the truth.

And then again, I bet there are some 50-year-olds out there who wish they were 21 again. But if they were 21, they’d be wishing they were seven. You get my point.

Let’s face it. There were some things you could do when you were seven that you plain can’t get away with anymore. I mean, the only real turmoil in your life was the weekly beating you might have gotten from dad for fighting with your brother.

I don’t want to take anything away from the sting that accompanied the wrist-shot your father laid on your behind—it hurt. There’s no doubt about it. But it wasn’t a lasting hurt. Hurt lasts a little longer when you’re older.

And sure, there was terror involved when dad stood in your doorway at night, the hall light illuminating his hands-on-hips silhouette, ready to scold you for goofing off when you should be sleeping. Boy was he mad.

But still, there were no real worries at seven. No ulcers brewing. No gray hairs sneaking onto your head.

eck, I used to spell gray g-r-e-y because I could—when I was seven. Now I have to conform and spell it g-r-a-y. And so it goes.

There was a time last year when I was grappling with the troubles of dating—and I guess, growing up—and I asked my 7-year-old nephew what he thought the meaning of life was.

Do you know what he said?

e said, “I don’t know. I just like the Cubs and the White Sox.” He likes ice cream, too.

I guess that’s what life at seven is. And I wish I were there again.

Because when you were seven, you could get away with stuff like that. Nobody called you a fair-weather fan then.

But now, you have to have your mind made up. About everything. It’s not that easy.

emember when you could pay Nerf football in the street from the time you got home from school until dinner and not be tired? In fact, you could even dive in the street to catch a pass without fear. Just because you were seven.

Now you can’t dive in the street. You’re afraid to even run full speed in the street now because you’ll fall and get your pants dirty.

You used to live to get your pants dirty. Why not? You didn’t have to do your own laundry then, so who cared?

And boy, when you were seven, you never worried about how you were going to spend Friday night. In fact, you looked forward to it.

Friday was the night “The Night Stalker” was on, and there was no way you were going to miss that. It actually made you believe there were monsters on the streets and in the sewers of Chicago. And because I lived so close to Chicago, it got my adrenalin flowing. It kept me awake at night.

But that was okay. Because you didn’t need to sleep when you were seven.

I know “Night Stalker” reruns are still on Friday nights. And they’re still fun to watch. But the magic is gone. I want it back.

I also want to be able to play “Ghost in the Graveyard” again. I want to be so excited with anticipation on Christmas Eve that I can’t get more than two hours of sleep the whole night. And I want to have fun playing one of those stupid vibrating electric football games again.

And I bet some of you want that too. But I guess that’s too much to ask for.

For now—and forever, I suppose—I’ll just have to live with those memories and go on with my life.

I guess I just get to thinking from time to time, and maybe that’s not all bad.

But I suppose I should grow up.

I’ll start tomorrow.