Wednesday, 25 July 2001 | Pretend

My three-year-old nephew confessed to me that sometimes he pretends he's me. (At the time he was insisting he be called "Ingo.") I wonder what he does when he's me, exactly. I'm guessing he doesn't surround himself in gray cloth walls in a 5 x 8 area, staying virtually motionless for 8 hours, or that he doesn't sit face-to-face with an illuminated box, clicking and dragging and opening and closing. Perhaps in his world I do much more active and exciting things, such as drive a dump truck, throw the line at a railroad station, or build an enormous sandcastle. It's strange that what we find appealing as a kid we often don't find appealing as an adult, and vice versa (though I suppose my feelings toward cubicles haven't changed much).