I'm Major Jackson and this is the slowdown.

At a recent birthday party, my friend Kate admitted disbelieved at celebrating 70 years

of life because as she said while chuckling, I actually feel like a 9-year-old, a sophisticated

9-year-old.

I get it.

Memories of our youth make the journey to adulthood seem like a flicker.

One minute, you're 10 years old, rounding second bays, or performing sleeping beauty

in a ballet recital.

The next, you're sitting on a call with colleagues talking marketing strategies or marveling

at the swiftness of time with family and friends.

However, we don't all arrive to adulthood at the same time.

At an impromptu gathering of college friends, Killian, not his real name, wanted after several

beers to head to the next bar.

Most of us had families to return home to, meetings in the morning, and duties that required

a good night's sleep.

Plus, it was a weeknight.

Killian accused us of playing grownups and promptly walked out the door.

He was our Peter Pan.

Floundering between odd jobs like a deckhand on an Alaskan fishing boat to a photographer's

assistant.

It was clear our lives had taken markedly different paths.

Weed outgrown his sheer spirit of fun, sometimes shenanigans, and he felt our betrayal.

...