“You’re a good player!” enthused my niece Sasha, then about 5 years old. I think this might be the best compliment I’ve ever gotten. We were sprawled on the floor of my apartment playing – I don’t remember, really – something from the toy closet.
It’s funny how some things you hear about yourself – for better and for worse – are immediately and seamlessly integrated into your identity. I can assure you I have self-identified as “a good player” ever since Sasha made her happy pronouncement, and would be honestly dismayed to be stripped of my title. Similarly, I was raised to believe that I’m a pain in the ass and the belief is, even still, a cornerstone of my character.
Maybe the reason I took to playerhood so gladly in my mid-30s is that I was not a good player as a child. It’s not that I lacked imagination – more that I was overwhelmed by reality. Here’s me playing along:
“You’re charging WHAT for tomatoes, supermarket check-out girl?!? That’s outrageous! I simply won’t pay it.” Exits in a huff.
I was also the serious sort, bookish and often alone. I prided myself on being “mature for my age” at least as much as I now am pleased to have “kept some of that childhood innocence.” Or found it lying about disused and adopted it, as the case may be.
I just turned 39 – maybe that’s brought on all this thinking about age-appropriateness. (I’ve decided just to tell everyone that I’m 40, because who’s going to believe a single woman who says she’s 39?) It could also be that I’m very nearly the oldest person I hang around with regularly – and sometimes I find myself tiresome in this regard.
When that happens, I hula-hoop.
“Y’know… for kids!” – The Hudsucker Proxy
