Hopefully kids these days are still using crayons and not just swiping iPads with their baby fingers, because for a lot of us, Crayolas are a signifier of a certain sweet (at least in our memories) time in life. You know, childhood! The 64-box? Opening it for the first time, looking at those beautiful, unsullied, rainbow-bright objects with which we could draw the many strange things cluttering our imaginations? It was one of the best parts of the year, even if Mom or Dad would invariably only buy the 16-pack, forcing us to rely on our "latent creativity" instead of the glut of color options available to the rest of civilized second-grade society.
But what happens when one grows up and ceases to use crayons? What happens when one's primary concerns are not about drawing the best picture one can with the colors available — the one that gets praised and placed in a prominent position above the chalkboard or on the fridge — but instead are about paying rent, getting to the gym regularly, dealing with one's boss or spouse or in-laws or children, or coping with general adult-onset ennui?