When I was eight years old, I liked sitting on a curb with my friends and mapping the layout of my future mansion on the graph paper my mother have left on the kitchen table. Armed with highlighter pens of all the neon colors popular int he 80s, I drew and colored my mansion’s blueprints, assigning bedrooms with neon pink beds to Child #1 and Child #2 and a blue bed to Child #3. Or maybe Child #2 had a fluorescent orange bed. But my bed with my future husband was neon green because green was my favorite color even then.
While other kids squealed and chased each other around the playground, us girls had our death down, attentive to the page as we furiously planned our lavish futures. I would have this house when I was 23 or 24, I decided. That seemed old enough. Maybe not old enough for all three kids, but that was okay. There was a little time for that. Just so long as I had all the kids by 26 or 27, so I would be a young mom, unlike my own. She was old when she had me. Thirty-six. That was ancient to an eight-year-old.
Attached to my large, squared bedroom, I drew the layout for my master bathroom, with a large jacuzzi tub and a separate shower stall. Every night of my adult life, I would plop myself in to the tub and soak my body in its bubbling waters.
I would cook magnificent dinners in the gigantic kitchen downstairs (there were two sheets of graph paper to represent these two levels), happily scrubbing all the vegetables I liked – potatoes and snow peas – at the massive kitchen sink while I sang along with the pop songs on the radio. In my house, I would be allowed to turn on the radio and sing along without my ancient mother shrieking at me to “turn off that bloody music! I can’t think with a straight head when that awful noise is squawking from that box!”
In my mansion, I wouldn’t have to make my bed or straighten up my room because I would have a maid to do that for me. My cats and rabbits could lounge on the sofa with me while we watched TV without anyone telling me that animals don’t belong on the furniture. No, my mansion would be awesome – void of rules and restrictions. We’d eat hamburgers and pizza every night. Play games all day. And live off our million dollars, which would magically appear when we bought the home.
At the end of recess, my friends would place their mansion grids on the sidewalk and compare our grand homes. These were the lives we envisioned for ourselves, the future lives we would certainly have twenty years from that point when we were naive, innocent, and dreaming eight years olds.
– Written by Miss A on April 1, 2012 (she is still holding out for that mansion and magic million dollars)