Movie Marathon

Awuga! I pressed the imaginary button on my steering wheel-turned dinner plate and sailed out to sea on my sofa boat. In reality, four white walls covered with cheap calendars that marketers hand out at supermarkets contained me. But as far as I was concerned, ocean water surrounded me as far as the eye could see. There were no parents to tell me it was time to eat or sleep. Do what you want 'cause a pirate is free! It was just me and my trusty crew of stuffed animals. I heartily sang pirate songs and pushed innocent dolls off the plank. There was nothing like lying back on the couch and listening to the sea waves crash – on TV. At the age of seven, I was my own man.

And then the Peter Pan movie ended. I bounced in my pirate gear for several minutes as the majestic credits song played. As my sofa boat approached the shore of my hard wooden floor, my pirate saber faded back into a remote control. I surfed the channels, skipping both CSI and Full House. I didn't want reality TV, I wanted adventure. That's when I heard a clash of electrical energy. Shzzt! I hopped off the sofa, dug the toy light saber out of my toy trunk, and prepared to experience Star Wars: Return of the Jedi in my own way.

Pew pew! Lasers flew back and forth, barely missing me by an inch. I was being shot at by action figures. They were on top of bookshelves, unreachable areas. Thus I centered my attention on their leader instead. There, down the hallway, he stood: my mother's fashion mannequin wearing a Darth Vader helmet. The warmth of my toy light saber as I gripped it tightly around my hand calmed my spirits as I ran toward him. At the age of seven, I was fearless.

The jedi duel ended. Glorious trumpet music played as the movie characters celebrated their victory. I yawned. I had no care for the Jedi Council's politics. The big vocabulary words used in the movie script weren't exactly my cup of tea either. And I definitely did not want to watch Hans Solo as he received kissing cooties from the Princess. I traded my light saber for the remote control and flipped channels again. Crack! The sound was like a tree breaking apart. But it was actually a cheap sound effect for a villain getting kicked in the face. Bruce Lee had arrived to the scene.

Hiyah! He was my role model. He jumped, so I jumped. He posed, so I posed. He shouted, and I shouted... twice. He kicked three men at the same time. I kicked my mother's fashion mannequin two times, four times, ten times. I focused more on Bruce Lee's cries than the actual movie. Hyaah! To me, that translated to “You shouldn't have done that. And now you're going to pay for it.” I scurried to my father's room, ready to beg him to teach me martial arts. As I ran, I jump kicked... twice. At the age of seven, I fought for what I believed in.

A decade has passed since then. Instead of doing what I feel like doing, my activities are mandated by a 4 by 5 inch paper called a schedule. Forget lasers. Homework scares me. I have been taught that when things don't go my way, it is best to accept them with maturity. Worst of all, when I watch movies now, I just laze on the sofa and eat junk food. At the age of seventeen, I am half the man I used to be.