Digging a big hole.

Do you remember how much fun it was when you were younger to dig holes? It was out of control the amount of pleasure a little kid could coax out of a hill a bucket and a shovel. Of all the holes I dug, one particular excavation sticks out. This particular cave (it really was, it seemed enourmous) had a mouth probably three or four feet across went maybe three feet straight down before angleing off into the side of the mountain. At the end was maybe room for one or one and a half children. Just as a giant ship becomes seaworthy with the shatter of a bottle against its bow, my hole only felt like a true accomplishment after I had a sandwich and a glass of water in its depths. I must have made the strangest requests, "Mom, I need a glass of water and a sandwich so I can eat them in my tunnel."
Now.
Take that fun and multiply it by one hundred.
Digging is a grown man's job. As a child I was diligent but would tire of the filthy labor quickly. Oh, if only I didn't live in an apartment in the city. I am older, wiser, and stronger. I could dig an underground city.
I really think that I would.