As a kid, I made books, wrote plays, and co-organized neighborhood concerts. I got up on Saturday mornings, put on my leotard and legwarmers, and danced my butt off to my something called “Get In Shape Girl” on VHS. When my brother and I were bored, we made up games and entertained ourselves for hours. My point is, like most kids who had the time to do such things, we played. We spent lots and lots of time playing and thinking up good and not-so-good ideas and being creative, and we enjoyed doing it. We rarely judged ourselves in the process. We just played because it kept things interesting and it made us feel alive. And somewhere deep down—wise little souls we were—I think we knew taking time to play mattered. I think we knew something about it was good for us, just like eating our vegetables, being nice, and getting enough sleep.

I’m sure you can guess where this is going. I agree with all the experts: somewhere along the line, we forgot how to play. I don’t know if the “we” is Americans, New Englanders, or 21^st century young women trying to get it all right, but whomever it is, for many of us, it’s true. As for me, I forgot how to play around 20 when life began to get pretty serious, as life often does around this time. Life felt chaotic, I wanted to figure everything out quickly, and so rather unconsciously, I decided there simply wasn’t time to play anymore. Upon college graduation at 21, I went and got myself a serious job and began taking myself very seriously. The whole thing was very boring.

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