Permission Slips

We spend a good portion of our lives asking permission.  Certainly, as children, we must ask our parents and teachers for permission to do most everything, from being excused from the table to using the bathroom.  I learned to say pleaseandthankyou and to raise my hand.  (True story:  in grade school, if we raised our hands for permission to go to the bathroom, we were expected to raise one or two fingers to indicate what business we intended to do!  I still cannot wrap my head around that requirement.)

But it wasn't just parents and teachers from whom we sought permission.  We had to ask our scout leaders, our ministers, priests and nuns, our crossing guards, our librarian, pretty much every adult we encountered in our day-to-day life.  They all had authority over us and we knew it.  So did they.

And it didn't stop when we grew up.  As adults, we ask permission from our bosses, our law enforcement, our courts, our government, our spouses (maybe), and sometimes, even our children.  ("May I enter your room, son?")  Always asking someone else if we can do things.

I do have a fond memory of asking permission.  I can still recall, as a child, the simple joy of getting a phone call after dinner from Julie or Kathie or Marty or Connie or Susan or Lynn or Karen asking, "Can you come to my house after school tomorrow?"  And once parental permission was granted, there was The Note.  "Dear Mrs. Newton, please allow Terry to walk home with Julie (or Kathie or Marty or Connie or Susan or Lynn or Karen) after school today.  Sincerely, Mrs. Mattil."  And of course, permission was granted.

And then there comes a time when there is no longer anyone to ask for permission.  At this age and in my circumstances, I can do anything I damn well please, and I don't need anyone to tell me I can or can't.  Sounds great, right?  Well, not so much.  Lacking any other authority figure, I have become my own authority, and I can be really tough.  In fact, I usually don't even ask myself for fear that the answer will be no.  After so many years of being a student/teacher/homemaker/wife/mother, and having to be productive in all those roles, I dare not ask permission to have a day off.  The demand for productivity lives on, even if it's only in my head.  So I don't read for pleasure when there is a bathroom to clean.  And I don't go for a drive when there is paperwork to tend to.  And I don't sit on the porch swing when there are weeds in the garden.

Well, life is short, and I think it's time for me to give myself permission, starting today.  So here I go:

To Whom It May Concern (which is only me):

Please give Terry permission to sit on the recliner all afternoon and watch the birds at the feeder.  Let her have the cat on her lap, too.  At some point, please tell her it's okay to pick up that novel she's been wanting to read and get started on it.  For dinner, allow her to have ice cream, even if it doesn't pair well with the wine.  And this evening, let her choose from all the highly recommended TV series available on Netflix and begin a lazy month of living vicariously in someone else's world.  Thank you.  

Sincerely, Myself

Today, I fell in love with permission.  My own.