Remember when thwarting evil masterminds was as simple as pushing a big red button mid-backflip? Those were the days. Now, as a Spy Adult, I need to fill out multiple forms in triplicate just to requisition a jetpack, navigate an endless gauntlet of mandatory risk-assessment meetings, and auction off my moral compass before even thinking about saving the world.
First, there's the issue of cardio. As a Spy Kid, I could sprint across the Great Wall of China fueled by Fruit Roll-Ups stashed in my utility belt. My knees were springs, my lungs were bellows, and death-defying stunts were just recess with lasers.
Now? One rooftop chase and I'm winded. My knees sound like Pop Rocks, and I've pulled a hamstring more times than I've pulled a trigger. No one warned me about grappling hook elbow after the age of 25—now my physical therapist owns a foreclosed volcano lair thanks to it.
The bureaucracy's a nightmare. Every mission requires a 12-step approval process: Field Expense Reports (“$1.2 million in unmarked bills for ‘miscellaneous bribes'”), waivers acknowledging that yes, I might violate the Geneva Convention. God forbid you break international law while thwarting an evil plot. The Agency used to trust me with a pogo stick that doubled as a flamethrower; now I need a notarized memo to validate an uber ride home from the airport.
And don't get me started on the IRS auditing me—they are surprisingly strict about classified technology write-offs.
Speaking of villains, they've changed too. Back then, evil masterminds had panache: they monologued, wore capes unironically, had moon bases, and henchmen in matching jumpsuits! They could have doubled as RuPaul's Drag Race judges!
Today's villains are depressingly efficient, dressed in business casual and Patagonia jackets. They Tweet and cause more destabilizing crimes through legal loopholes and lobbying. Try infiltrating a boardroom where the evil plan is a reduction in 401k contributions and how to “best” invest the company pension plan. I'd rather storm a booby-trapped jungle fortress any day.
The worst part? The moral gymnastics. Back then, the line between Good and Evil was as clear as the “Detonate” button on my sneakers. Now? The Agency partners with warlords for “geopolitical necessity” or something. I've been in what I think is Panama for three weeks (could be Colombia—the paperwork is classified) doing who-knows-what for who-knows-whom. The bad guys have families and LinkedIn profiles, the good guys have questionable offshore accounts, and I suspect our recent mission for “national security” was just helping secure a corporate merger for a banana company.
I remember when my biggest ethical dilemma was choosing between the bubblegum bomb or my Tamagotchi EMP.
Some days I miss the simplicity of being a Spy Kid, when the biggest challenge was saving the world before fourth-period Math. But every now and then, while I'm drinking my third coffee in the break room, I'll catch a glimpse of my younger self in the microwave reflection. And in that moment, I'm reminded of why I do this. Sure, I'm older now. Jaded, even. But deep down, I'm still that kid with a power suit and a dream: to save the world—even if it means storming boardrooms in Allbirds.