Ferocious Fours

Visual by Vivian Chambers

I enjoy long, romantic walks on the beach, I like my eggs scrambled, and my life peaked at age three. Since the dawn of time, every juvenile has undergone a rebellious phase, whether it be the Terrible Twos or the Tortuous Teens. I was no exception; my personal kryptonite being the Ferocious Fours.  However, the tears, tantrums, and turmoil of that year was no ordinary ordeal. As an infant, I ardently believed that my life at age 3 was prime. I attended weekly cooking classes, zumba, drank my milk, and upheld the spitting image of a renaissance toddler. The inevitable life changes which the natural aging process brought were unwelcome--I was Peter Pan, insistent upon never growing up. On the dreadful day which I turned four, all records would reflect that I had uttered a single spiteful phrase. Channeling all of the malice that my puny toddler body could possibly muster, I spat: “I WANT MY LIFE BACK. I WANT TO BE THREE AGAIN.”

I was voracious. Anything short of time travel was unacceptable. I would not be satisfied until I was rightfully returned to my golden era of prosperity. The enemy was not a petty curfew, nay strict parental figures. I had set my sights on a far more formidable foe. My adversary was the very passage of time itself. My fourth birthday launched a series of futile insurgencies-fits, shenanigans, and tears. Woefully, time refused to yield, and I tragically continued to age. The following months consisted purely of the greatest weapon known to man--tantrums. I was insistent upon the notion that if I rebelled enough, I could escape four’s gauntlet and be granted a return to normalcy. My glory days would not be reduced to a mere relic of the past, not on my watch. I was a firm believer that Rome wasn’t built in a day, so revolution ensued well into year four. I stayed up as late as my infantile shell would allow, leveling my icy glare at the very clock which constantly tormented me. My fond memories of age three kindled my fighting spirit, as I opted to seek the fountain of youth rather than my regularly scheduled bath. It wasn’t much, but it was honest work.

Alas, as the law of gravity predicted, all things which rise must inevitably fall. I was a rebel lacking the technology to achieve my cause. My pursuit of justice consumed me, but to no avail. Over time, I grew drowsy and once again succumbed to my 8:00 am bedtime. My ambition bruised beyond repair, I became jaded and weary of fighting. Nothing gold, it seemed, could truly last.

I have yet to rediscover the untapped reservoir of bliss that age three bestowed upon me. The sheer harmony of the time period continues to stand unparalleled. It wasn’t the inadequacy of age four that struck me, but rather the intangibility of age three that poached my spirit. Although my resolve may feel like surrender, I prefer to consider it a tactical approach. Rather than expending more time and energy fighting a force of nature, I now try to seek remnants of childish excitement in my daily life. Ultimately, it is doubtful that I will ever be three years old again. However, that doesn’t mean I can’t experience the same rush of euphoria over green Fruit Loops or the Pokémon season finale. No longer too stubborn to deny anything short of time reversal, I can hold a greater appreciation for the past without devaluing the present. The years to come are no longer daunting. I have resolved to always carry a piece of the Terrific Threes with me, finding solace in this form of everlasting youth. I now sleep soundly, knowing that my tomfoolery will never truly end. I have won, and the Ferocious Fours can never take that away.