I was walking along when it appeared. Bursting out of nowhere, there it was before me. I was going to catch it, after all that is my real test.
A Horsea.
One throw and it was mine.
I resisted the urge to do a mini fist pump and walked on, the early evening still bright and warm as I dawdled through the park. On some level I could appreciate the lameness of it all. I’d taken a fairly long walk for no other reason but to catch imaginary monsters, but addiction does funny things to you.
And I am definitely addicted. Despite starting a week later than MWF I have almost caught up and racked up around 25km since downloading it. So at least I’m getting exercise out of it.
The intensity that I stared at my screen and my flicking gestures must have tipped them off and a pack of wild, chavvy youths appeared.
“You caught a Pikachu?” This delivered with the swaggering bravado of a teenage boy.
“Nope.” Not answering seems to irritate people, so I just kept walking.
“But you are playing Pokemon?” He asked.
“Yeah.” I said with a smile and slight shrug.
I walked on to hear one exclaim “that’s a grown man playing Pokemon” a fact adjudged to be “sad” by another and then there was some laughing.
A few years ago this would have mortified me, but now I felt nothing, a fact that I attribute to a few factors.
Firstly, I don’t actually care what a bunch of teenagers loitering in a park think. The second is that I have made peace with my uncool hobbies and childish enthusiasms.
I like what I like, deal with it.
Is this what getting old is all about? Realising you’re not cool but realising that that’s okay? I hope so, because I wasted far too long worrying about what strangers thought of me.
I walked on, leaving them to laugh at the sad old guy, after all, there were more Pokemon to catch.
Any thoughts? You know what to do. BETEO.
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