Fun Online
Nobody announces the end of play. It just thins out, one cancelled evening at a time, until the cupboard of dusty boxes becomes an archaeology of a person you used to be.
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Nobody announces the end of play. It just thins out, one cancelled evening at a time, until the cupboard of dusty boxes becomes an archaeology of a person you used to be.
There is no ceremony for it. No one hands you a certificate confirming that you have aged out of mucking about. What happens instead is slower and harder to notice: the afternoons get shorter, the diary fills, and the things you used to do for no reason at all quietly lose their slot. You keep meaning to get back to them. Meaning to is the whole trick. A person can spend two decades meaning to, and in that time the muscle wastes, the friends drift, and the boxes on the top shelf acquire that particular soft grey fur that only settles on objects nobody has picked up in years.
Ask an adult why they no longer play and you will usually get one of two answers, both of them delivered with a slightly apologetic shrug. The first is that play is for children, which is a strange thing to believe given that nobody applies the same logic to eating, sleeping or singing in the car. The second is that they will get back to it once things settle down. Things do not settle down. Things have never settled down for anyone in the history of things. The waiting room you are sitting in has no door at the far end, and the magazines are terrible.
Something to do with your hands and eyes turns out to be the great social lubricant.
Losing gracefully is the entry fee. Winning gracefully is the actual skill.
The reward framing is a trap with no exit, so stop waiting for the bell.