The Long Road To Fifty: 8
In retrospect, joining the Cub Scouts seems an unlikely move for someone lousy with tools and afraid of nature. Yet for one year, I donned the blue-and-gold dork suit.
I don’t know, maybe it was the badges. Or the mistaken belief that chicks dig a boy in a neckerchief.
As a Bear Scout, I was highly qualified to scout bears or something. But all I remember doing was making a ceramic Christmas tree lamp and a sluggish Pinewood Derby car.
My time in the Scouts was short-lived. I quit after a single year, because–and I am not making this up–I did not want to become a Webelos.
I suspect that this anti-Webelos attitude was an early manifestation of my anxiety about growing up, which would become more pronounced as I approached double digits.