I have never stopped playing.
At age 55, my hands shape themselves into imaginary critters that talk in squeaky voices or growl and nip noses. I sicc them at my husband in the middle of restaurants when nobody's looking, and he talks back. I don't do this when the waiter's visiting, because adults aren't supposed to play.
I play with words. I make bad puns, which I'm told is more acceptable play for adults. I rename my cats silly things several times a day (Weeblebuttz sits next to me as I type this). I rewrite songs on the fly as jokes, or commentary, or nonsense.
My mind spontaneously explodes into play. I don't have to make an effort to be playful. I don't know if this is because I've never quite grown up or because I have bipolar disorder and possess the creativity that goes with the neurodiversity, but play is never far from my mind.
And I consider this a blessing.
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