I live every day of my life according to the adult creed – respect authority, work like a dog, and pay bills until you grow old and die. But underneath the surface is my seven-year-old self, long-expired but still very much alive. Twenty years later, she has no idea how her outer shell has aged, and every day she throws that age-old temper tantrum to be let out again. It’s only the adult creed that prevents me from giving her the key.

People say that scent is the strongest sense tied to memory, but I’d have to disagree. No, for me it’s sound (namely music) that takes me back. My friends used to kid me about being a hippie, but only because of that horrid wool wrap-around coat I stole from mom’s 1960s wardrobe. Adorned with brown, orange and beige embroidery, nowadays I’d get shot wearing that out in public (or severely mocked). But I consider it an antique, and as so, I refuse to throw it out. I guess I am a hippie at heart.

While I’m a fan of all genres, there’s something about classic rock that triggers that inner seven-year-old in me. Led Zeppelin, Boston, Todd Rundgren, Jimi Hendrix – the list could go on and on. When you’re under the legal driving age, you’re not only forced to be carted around town in your parents’ car; you’re also forced to listen to whatever they wanted to listen to. Needless to say, my childhood was one big “Hits of the 60s” soundtrack, and to this very day, you couldn’t convince me that there was (or ever will be) any music greater.

One of my first memories was splashing around in the water at my aunt’s lake house in Upstate NY. I can still hear the sound of “Who’ll Stop the Rain?” playing in the background – one of Credence Clearwater Revival’s greatest songs (in my opinion). Back then, I hardly paid it any attention; it was just noise in the background. I had no idea that twenty years later, its sounds would linger in my memory like they have. It’s funny, but I’m in my late-20s, and every time I go back to visit that lake house, I have to fight to not cry upon leaving it again. It’s really not that hard to do. All I do is listen to the adult in me lecture that, “Grown women do not cry.” That usually shuts me up.

People laugh when I tell them I watch “The Golden Girls,” and frankly, I do not care. Not only is it a hilarious show (Sophia is just too funny), but I will always remember it as the final 30 minutes before my bedtime. Mom and I watched it every Friday night (or Saturday night, I forgot exactly when it came on), and as soon as the credits rolled, she’d carry me up to bed and tuck me in. She’d ask me how much I loved her, and I’d stretch out my foot-long arms as far as they’d go and say, “This much!” Funny, but I could never get them to stretch as far as I felt I loved her. That was fun.

Every cable company has at least one channel that plays those feel-good shows from way back when, and sometimes (when I need a pick-me-up), I’ll watch them. It’s amazing how something as simple as the theme song from a show you watched as a tike can affect you. I would have to say my favorite was “The Wonder Years,” set off by that infamous Joe Cocker tune. Once a month, my mom would get her hair dyed at my Aunt Alyce’s house, who was a stylist at the time. I’d sit in her living room, watch that show, and make this ridiculously long Christmas list that Santa Claus could never afford (even if he was real).

I don’t know why I’m rehashing all of this with you people, and I apologize if I bored you to death. I guess I’m mostly just doing it for me. I’ve accepted the fact that I’m now an adult, and the blissfulness of childhood is only a memory. You only get one chance to be a kid, and mine has come and gone.

Kids - don’t grow up too fast.