COLUMN: What happens when real life gets Harry

There are many things I regret about my childhood. I once competed in something called the “Math Olympics,” and I was tremendously fond of the scrunchie. More than once, I put Pringles in my mouth and pretended I was a duck. There was one particularly unfortunate eight-month stretch during which I obsessed over the band Creed. Much to the chagrin of my mom, my sister and anyone in a car next to us, I would not get out of our blue Explorer until every lyric of “One Last Breath” had finished bellowing out of her car stereo. I owned a Creed T-shirt.