I don’t think “play” looks the same at 59 as it did when I was a teenager—and that’s probably a good thing. I don’t throw a ball in the street until the porch lights come on, and nobody’s ringing a dinner bell to call me home. If there were a dinner bell now, I’d probably assume something was wrong with the house.
Play didn’t disappear. It just got quieter, more intentional and a lot easier on the knees.
For me, playtime shows up in small, sneaky ways.
It’s tinkering with words until a sentence finally clicks. It’s going down a rabbit hole with a piece of history, a movie, or a song and realizing an hour vanished while I wasn’t looking. It’s pouring a bourbon not to rate it or review it, but just to sit with it—no notes, no score, no spreadsheet lurking nearby.
It’s laughing with Daryl over some shared memory that no one else in the room would understand, and deciding it’s absolutely not worth explaining.
Play is curiosity without an assignment. It’s doing something with no productive outcome attached. No grade. No deadline. No “how can I justify this later?” Just the simple pleasure of doing it because it’s interesting, or fun, or makes the day feel lighter.
At this stage of life, that kind of play matters more than ever. Responsibilities stack up fast—work, family, health, obligations—and play is what keeps everything from becoming a checklist. It reminds me I’m more than what I produce… and that I’m allowed to enjoy myself without filing a report afterward.
So no, playtime doesn’t look like recess anymore. But when I’m fully present, unhurried, and quietly amused by the world?
That’s still play.
Copyright © 2026 Doug DeBolt.
