Children

There are children in our apartment complex, I know there are. I see them on the black asphalt on warm sunny days, chalking welcome mats in front of buildings D through F. I see them stumbling outside at 7 am by the masses headed to the bus. But that’s just it- I only see them, it’s a rare occasion indeed when I hear them.

Then there’s Sean and I. We race down the three flights of stairs, giggling like five year olds playing kissing tag. We do plyometrics on Tuesday for our workout, and for those of you who don’t know what that is, it involves jumping contests and pretend ski competitions. Beyond that, Sean has recently become fascinated with scaring me. He loves trying out creepy voices and hiding spots, and more often than not, he is rewarded with involuntary squeals from yours truly. Our downstairs neighbors must hate us.

Maybe the children make no noise to make up for the racket coming from two fully grown adults. Or maybe we are just too caught up in singing at the top of our lungs and stomping around to spray each other with water to notice the sounds of their laughter and play. Regardless of the reason, Sean and I are easily the most rambunctious children over 20 on the block.
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