You're waiting for permission to play

Come, let us look at the little comedy you have been performing at your own door. The permission you are waiting for is yours to give — you stand waiting for someone to say it is alright to play, but on the other side of that door, waiting to answer, is only you; the permission slip has your own name in both places, granter and receiver, and you have been waiting patiently at your own door for yourself to answer. You already grant permission for far less worthy things — you need no committee to authorize working late, or worrying, or taking on the extra duty; those you wave straight through, and it is only joy you make stand outside and beg, so the machinery works fine, you have simply never aimed it at delight. And give yourself the permission, in small plain words — say it, actually, "I am allowed this afternoon, I am allowed the silly thing," and take it before the committee in your head reconvenes, for the permission is not a feeling to wait for but a sentence, and you are the only one who needs to hear it. What is the thing you would do this week, if someone finally said you were allowed?