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Play Time is Not Over

This afternoon I was reading “Homophobia as a Weapon of Sexism” for my women’s studies class. As I read, I was continually interrupted by the giggling and shouting of children in the front yard. This caught me off guard for two reasons:

1. There haven’t been “kids” in our neighborhood since I, myself, was one. Not enough to cause a disturbance anyway.

2. I longed to be young again playing outside on a sunny Sunday afternoon.

I remember when I wasn’t boggled down by that horrible word: “responsibility.” During that glorious stage of life the only thing to occupy my time was the limitless borders of my imagination. I wanted more than anything to go outside and climb a tree. Or run for running’s sake. I even wished that I could fall and scrape my knees {but only for a minute}. Instead I’m stuck indoors reading about dreary economics and obligatory patriarchal ideologies.

By 5:00 pm I couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed a bucket, slipped on some shoes, headed outside and played.

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