I’ve been called immature for most of my life. Sometimes it was an accusation. Sometimes it was a compliment. Sometimes it was both, usually in the same sentence.

If immaturity was a martial art, I’d be a 5th Dan black belt in Immaturity-do. And yeah, I’ve trained hard for it. Years of dedication, discipline, and dressing up in my sister’s tights for no reason other than to get a laugh.

When you grow up in a military family moving every two years, you either become an introverted mystery or the loud, funny kid. I somehow managed to be both. My humour became my shield and my sword, crack a joke to win people over, or crack a joke to keep them at arm’s length. Usually, I made myself the punchline so no one else could beat me to it.

Fast forward a few decades, and my immaturity hasn’t worn off. If anything, it’s aged like fine wine in a questionable cellar. My wife might roll her eyes, but I consider it a parenting superpower. I’m equal parts Pee-wee Herman and Deadpool, with a dash of Denis Miller meets Jughead from Archie Comics. Yes, it’s as chaotic as it sounds.

I’m still a Dad-joke nuclear reactor. Still laughing at fart humour. Still itching to tickle people (my wife keeps reminding me this is frowned upon in grocery stores and with our international students… I listen to her on the grocery store thing).

And yeah, I’ve had to “act mature” in my 30 years in the corporate world. Once, as a senior art director, I got a pre-meeting lecture from our head of account service before facing our biggest client: “Be professional. Cover your tattoos.”

Halfway through the meeting, she leaves the room. The buttoned-up exec next to me leans over and asks, “I couldn’t help but notice a bit of ink on your wrist. You got tattoos?”

By the time my boss came back, half the boardroom had their sleeves rolled up, shirts unbuttoned or pants pulled down, swapping tattoo horror stories. Was it “professional”? Nope. Was it “immature”? Absolutely. And it was glorious.

Here’s the thing, the people who call you immature are often just jealous you’re still capable of being a little kid when you want to be. Acting your age is overrated. Immaturity isn’t about shirking responsibility; it’s about refusing to kill off the part of you that plays.

So to anyone clutching their pearls about it, try it. Belt out a song in public. Give a wedgie to a friend (consensual wedgie, people). Wear your underwear on the outside. Live like you did before the world convinced you you’re supposed to care what it thinks.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a blog to finish. On my deck. In August. With no pants on. Or do I? You’ll never know.