I recently went out for breakfast and sat at a table near two women in their 50s. One did most of the talking as she described her recent vacation to Italy, and another trip to some sort of retreat that specializes in helping people get in touch with their "inner children."
It was one of those conversations that is very annoying to overhear. Annoying because you can't avoid overhearing it, and annoying because you have to bite your tongue to avoid butting into call someone a dumbass.
This woman kept talking happily about how she and someone else let their inner children "play together." And she described a session in which the retreat participants sat in a treehouse and read children's stories to one another.
Look, I'm a pretty liberal and tolerant guy when it comes to other people's thrills. As long as everyone's a willing participant, no minors (or other species) are involved and nobody's getting hurt, I don't really care what you're into. But if you're 50 years old and sitting in a treehouse reading "Winnie the Pooh" to a bunch of other adults, I'm sorry, you need a kick in the ass.
Stay away from the self-help section of the bookstore. Forget weirdo seminars and charlatan gurus.
Get on a bike and coast down a hill with a huge smile on your face. Ride through a big puddle without caring how dirty your clothes get. Crank up some good speed and lock up the rear brake for a long skid.
Hell, go sky-diving. Or surfing. Go to the pool and do a cannon ball. Borrow the neighbor kid's skateboard and take a few turns down the hill at the end of the street. Whatever blows your dress up, just do it.
Have some real fun, not the kind that some crystal-wearing wingnut tells you to have after you write him a check
See how it works out. If it makes you feel better, we can pretend this is some revolutionary form of therapy. I'll set up a PayPal button and you can send me some money.