Permission is one of those words that rolls off the tongue like salad oil. It’s a cool word not warm and friendly like love or warmest. Permission has to be given. It can never be taken or stolen. Permission conjures images of sterness: teacher may I, or mother may I. At my age I don’t feel like I need permission to do anything. I don’t need permission to drive the car. However, at gas prices I do need money.
I don’t need permission to have a snack. However, I do need willpower to not have a snack. Permission is one of those words that grates on the nerves of a rebel, plays on her spine like an off-key violin. I guess I am a rebel. My mother was a rebel. She believed that what’s good for the goose is good for the gander.