Grow the Eff Up!

Brooklyn’s new pre-school for adults has this writer hoping for death by Play-Doh.

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A lady who does that gross thing that should be from the 1990s but somehow is happening now where you dye your hair primary colors is opening an adult pre-school in Brooklyn Heights. Which is super confusing because I thought that Brooklyn Heights was an adult pre-school? Oh, this lady also wears a crown on her head. Because of whimsy. No, I did not say “because whimsy.” Sorry—I’m from the Preposition Generation.

was considering refraining from making fun of the adult pre-school until I laughed so hard I peed my Garanimals™ and Strawberry Quik came out my nose, but then I saw this quote from Joni, about the school’s $333 to $999 sliding scale: “Preschool is all about choice. I want them [the students] to feel good about the choice they’re making.” And that, my friends, is the moment that I was really like “Okay, Michelle Joni née Lapidos, sorry, but the gloves with the different colored fingers and a little winking dollface on each fingertip are coming off!”

Because, yeah, like, adults do need more choice. But like, you know, maybe the choice not to live on a planet which is simultaneously melting and burning up while they spend the last waking days humans will ever spend on a temperate Earth making less and less money to work for meaner and meaner richer and richer people so they can buy shit that gives them cancer? Instead of the choice of whether to spend the price of a round-trip ticket to Florida versus one to France on a chance to make Play-Doh hair with a woman who changed her name, as an adult, and isn’t trans.

I’m sorry about all this political crap. Really. I sound like Sean Penn, if he were a woman, and that is not good. So I’m going to focus on what really upsets me about this little project, which is that I hate crafts. I hate crafts because I hate anything made out of yarn, except for cashmere cardigans, and I’m not relying on Michelle Joni’s disciples to even make anything symmetrical, much less a periwinkle-blue cashmere cardigan with shell buttons, large, if any of you inner-child seekers are reading this and actually want to be useful while you’re rolling on molly and taking a break from your Gnip-Gnop tournament.

I should add that my hatred of crafts is increased due to my insane jealousy of the people who enjoy them, because they don’t have to rely on people for entertainment. Let’s face it, no one’s ever been hurt because a God’s eye didn’t want to go out and have a few drinks. So yes, I mock Lady Tomato Head and her Popsicle-stick-wielding customers, but I do think it might be fun to be able to have fun without having to rely on intelligent conversation and jokes. I say I think it might be because I don’t actually know, because the thought of touching yarn or paint or crayons or even the idea that chalk exists makes me want to wash my hands and then vomit.

I have never been a big fan of the infantilization of adulthood thing. I mean, I like the part where you eat whatever you want when you want and you don’t have to do what anyone says, but I have just never dreamed of being able to act like a kid again, unless you’re talking about throwing tantrums in front of my parents, which I don’t dream about—I just do. Truly, it kind of depresses me, I guess, to think of all these people paying to go do something that they could just do on their own. So if you like crafts have a craft night! It’s not that hard. (Shopping list: Beer. Yarn. Barf Bags.) Don’t give some lady who doesn’t want to have a real job money you made at yours!

Anyway. As I write this I am visiting my parents. They are in the other room watching what they insist is a documentary but I’m pretty sure they just taped the news back in 1989 so they could watch it now and feel 50. I wouldn’t be above a shenanigan like that, but I think I’m above adult pre-school. Plus, I am probably way too old for it, which is sad because I think they’re going to need somewhere there to give people dirty looks when they text during their graham crackers and milk. That said I might go just once—I mean, maybe one of them will have a heart attack and die when they realize there’s not a left-handed scissor emoji, and if I’m not around to suck all the collagen out of their face I will never forgive myself.


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