Recently, I was a mermaid. Well, not a real mermaid because, hello! But, within the bounds allowed by this fantastical world of ours, I was the best mermaid I could be. I was at a bachelorette party which invited a whole group of putative adults to dress up in sea-themed clothing, wigs, and makeup and spend an afternoon singing bastardized versions of songs from The Little Mermaid with lyrics I will not repeat here. So we sang, and clapped, and laughed until it hurt, and told stories, and shared advice, and generally gave ourselves permission to play.

Which, if you ask me, is something adults ought to do more. It seems weird to me that, after we cross the threshold of some imaginary age, play suddenly gets relegated to children. I’m not saying adults don’t know how to have fun. If my friends are any example, we’ve damn well perfected the art. But finding time to play like children isn’t something we often do—and I’m here to advocate on its behalf.

The joy of silly

I am blessed with a good number of friends who refuse to act their age, and I couldn’t be more grateful. I personally was never really great at figuring out the art of play. I grew up fast as a kid, and didn’t bond well with my peers, which left me sort of isolated and socially awkward. Play to me always seemed vaguely embarrassing—something that could potentially draw unwanted attention to myself, or make me feel awkward if I didn’t want to act as big as the people around me. Thankfully, my friends have slapped some sense into me over the years.

Thanks to their prodding, I have found myself in recent years doing things I totally missed out on as a kid. I have danced through parking lots, taken rides on the back of shopping carts, skipped arm-in-arm down the aisles of a train, climbed on monkey bars, gone down park slides at midnight, and burst into spontaneous song. Last summer, in a field, I became an antelope and my friends will attest that I was a truly awesome antelope. I have artlessly played drinking games that involved oven mitts, lipstick, and rubber ducks. I’ve gone to costume parties, put different colour nail polish on each of my nails, and worn wigs at random. I dress up every Halloween, even if I’m staying home. And—catch this—I have documented NONE of it on Instagram. I’m not playing to prove how fun my life is. I’m playing because I love living.

It’s not about them

In the past, I would have avoided most of this behaviour because I worried it was somehow flashy. As if I was doing it to prove to some undefined external audience that I know how to have fun. But I have realized over time that my expression of personal joy has nothing to do with “them”. This is the way I show the universe the contents of my heart. In my experience, strangers who understand joy typically smile when they witness these odd occurrences, or laugh, or—in the best case scenarios—join in. This has allowed me to make dozens of “in the moment” friends—people as excited as me to take every opportunity to play.

And for those people who don’t understand joy? Well, maybe these little moments will shine a light for them and point the way to their own personal expressions of delight. And if not, then not. All we can do in this dance of life is invite others to dance along. Not everyone will like the music you’re playing and that’s ok. We’re all here to dance to the music in our own hearts and hope that our self-expression will make the world around us just a little bit brighter.