Playground Pillage Daniel Dolgicer

I arose unusually early that morning, rather disheveled. My typically straight and stagnant hair had deteriorated into a lopsidedness that seemed to defy the laws of physics. My pajamas, generously dotted with dinosaurs of the multicolored persuasion, had been tangled by a night of twisting and turning. Nevertheless, I radiated optimism typical of a naive six-year old boy. My planned excursion to the local playground monopolized my thoughts; it rendered obsolete the childish dilemmas that constantly plagued me. On Mondays and Fridays, and every day in between, I longed to champion the seesaw and navigate the labyrinthine alleyways of the obstacle course (although I claimed to loathe the swings, it was in fact my fear of heights that limited my ability to conquer them). My eyes widened; energy and elation flowed freely through my limbs; my heart thumped volumes. I hastily outfitted myself in functional yet fashionable attire--royal purple sweatpants, a light sweater with neatly arranged blue columns, and velcro sneakers with blinding red lights on the heels. Clenching my babysitter's clammy palms, I embarked on my weekly journey to prowl through the playground.

As we trotted down the grand yet narrow boulevards of midtown...