I got into an argument at the supermarket. This is how volatile our world is right now. It was in the checkout line. My opponent was not only clueless, but pigheaded, refusing all logic. The fact that my opponent is only 9 is no excuse.
“I don’t like Superman,” the little boy said. “He’s kinda dumb.”
At the time I was holding a Superman comic book, along with my other grocery items. They were selling comics in the checkout lane. The elderly lady cashier was just staring at us, arguing.
“You don’t LIKE Superman?” I said. “Everyone likes Superman.”
“I don’t know ANYONE who likes Superman,” said the boy.
“I literally don’t even know who Superman is,” said the boy’s 7-year-old little sister.
This is an affront.
When I was a boy, everyone knew who Superman was. Namely, because Superman was a vital piece of boyhood. While girls were off playing “House,” developing useful life skills such as learning how to balance checkbooks and using EZ Bake ovens, boys were running
around in our backyards wearing bath towels as capes.
As a kid, you’d get into these wonderfully dramatic arguments with your buddies over which superhero was best. These topical disagreements usually centered around lesser superheroes like Batman, Spiderman, or Barbara Eden. But here’s the thing: Superman always won the argument. Because—hello?—he was Superman.
My boyhood mind was consumed with Superman. I had Superman pajamas which looked exactly like his costume. I often wore them to school, beneath my clothes. During bathroom breaks I would tear off my civilian clothes and return to class in my heroic get-up. Mrs. Welch would refer to me as “Mister Kent” from there on.
I wore those pajamas every day until there were holes in my little Super Butt. One day the pajamas…