Somewhere I once heard that we really don’t change that much beyond a Junior High sensibility. I tend to agree. Our insecurities, petty opinions, judgmental attitudes, and selfish ambitions remain. They might be more refined, but they are still present. I would also add that these inner character flaws begin way before Junior High.

I have a distinct memory of being completely crushed by failed expectations at an age where most memories are completely forgotten. The setting was at our long ago house on Appleby Lane. It was a dark brown split level house with a crab apple lined driveway that wound up a hill and left of a level concrete pad. My older brother was pushing a basketball toward a low rim fit for the elementary-age children (or less?) that we were. My mother had recently returned from the grocery store and surprised us with the spongy delight of ochre-yellow banana Moon Pies.

I love banana Moon Pies. Chocolate are fine too, but banana somehow hug my sensory receptors more tightly. If you have never had a banana Moon Pie just know that they don’t taste like banana in the slightest. That’s probably a good thing. They’re the one gas station snack that could go completely stale and it just doesn’t matter. They will still be as good as the day they were wheeled down the ramp of the Lance van and situated next to the unnaturally red peanut patties.

With the Moon Pie wrapper successfully peeled and the yellowish circle delivered to my expectant hand, I turned to go join my brother. Distracted by the ball that had deflected off the rim again, I suddenly tripped an awkward second grader trip; the kind that is beyond balanceable recovery . . . the kind that takes a perfectly delectable banana Moon Pie and smashes it between your hand and the concrete.

I was undone. Not a bite had been taken. My Moon Pie was undone . . . smeared into the fine concrete crevices. I cried uncontrollably. My expectations were so high, and now so defeated, that when my mom brought out a second Moon Pie (she had bought a box of Moon Pies. Yes.) I was still inconsolable.

Inconsolable doesn’t look good on a child or an adult. When I was called to my very first church pastorate, I decided I would take Fridays off. Nothing would interfere with that day. It would be the day I would plan something adventurous and fun and accomplish things I desired to accomplish. I would hike, or mow, or build something. But more often than not, I would fail to proactively plan out my day. My wife would ask, “What are you going to do on your day off?” “I dunno.”

As the sun would rise every Friday, I would wake up with the “I dunno” as my daylong mantra. Like a well-smoked pork shoulder a low and slow heat smoldered into my conscience. I became angrier and angrier as I failed to accomplish anything of any significance throughout the day. I was, like my pre-Junior High self, inconsolable in my aggravation, even when my wife would offer up the freedom to go do something and a list of things I could do.

We actually do change. Or, we should change. Albeit slowly, we begin to set our expectations a little lower and raise our awareness of our reactions. I plan my days a little bit better and don’t get quite as frustrated if things don’t go as planned. Crushed Moon Pies don't crush me quite as obviously. Both losses certainly disappoint me. We change. But not much. In the words of Jimmy Buffett, I’m apparently, “growing older but not up.”

If you have read this and get a hankering for a banana Moon Pie, I beg you, do not even entertain a so-called mini Moon Pie or a single layer Moon Pie. Oh, please. Go ahead and do the double-decker. If not, you’re expectations will certainly go unmet and I will not be held responsible for your childish tantrum.