Older and More Mature

Marvin glanced at his liver spots and sighed. Nothing he could do about it. This was the older, more mature Marvin who didn't agonize over things he could not control. Small annoyances used to eat him up. Late paperboy, gooey pizza, burnt pork chops. Okay, he could control that one, but another sign of maturity was forgiving himself for his imperfections.
He was not a good hugger. Either he went too long, leading to awkwardness or too short, resulting in disrespect. He hugged his pillows for hours until he got the angle, pressure and length of time just right. Now most of the neighborhood waited outside his house for one of his hugs.
Alas, there remained vestiges of his former childishness--making duck noises in church, faking a stroke in a crowded waiting room. Maturing is a process. Cucumbers mature into slush much too fast, while avocados are forever adolescent.

Nibbling at the Edges

I have been nibbling at the edges of maturity for years. I wake up and think today I will be a responsible adult. I begin by eating a mature breakfast like corn flakes. I skim the Times. Try in vain to smoke a pipe.
I admit a major sticking point in this effort at adulthood are my three dozen sock puppets carefully placed in my closet. They all have names and their own personalities.
Sometimes they get into loud arguments and insensitive neighbors pound on my wall.
I have developed a mature stride, but usually that leads me right to the Leggo store. They take up most of my garage.
I'm dating Leslie, a mature woman who does not laugh at my Pee Wee Herman impression. So I'm working on a John Garfield impression, a tough manly man, who sadly croaked very young.
Come to think of it, I'd rather be a silly 80 year old than a dead mature corpse.
Isn't that a mature thought?