Sandbox

I am not ashamed to admit it: Toy Story 3 made me cry. For all of you robots out there, the end of the movie meant more to me than (spoiler alert!) Andy giving up Woody for frat parties and free beer; the end of the movie felt like the end of my childhood.

As the credits rolled in the dark theater, I dabbed my eyes, trying to keep my friend from seeing the tears roll down my face in a room full of six-year-olds. Yes, its true that I haven’t played with my Barbies in about six months (only half kidding), and the only time that it’s acceptable to watch Blue’s Clues is with my four-year-old cousin, but my childhood was there—until Pixar took it away.

I’ve cried during more movies than I can count, but I got the most flack for Toy Story 3. What was so wrong about mourning my childhood? As registration for spring semester looms, we are all reminded that final papers and exams are coming like winter weather.

For seniors, the job search is underway, and for everyone else the time to be a child is over (that means you, freshmen). The five stages of grief (denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance) sound suspiciously like a pre-med’s psychological state in Perkins during reading week.

In the grand scheme of things, Toy Story 3 reminded me that we aren’t adults just yet and that we should take time to enjoy those little things. I like to jump into the big puddles with my yellow rain boots and sing Dora the Explorer at the top of my lungs with my trusty sidekick Boots (also known as my roommate).

I give you permission to watch Doug on YouTube because you never forgot the theme song. Better yet, go rent Toy Story 3 from Lilly and tell me how it is. The box of tissues will be on me.