Remember that episode of Friends, where Phoebe flings herself across Central Park, running like someone's chasing her ("the only way that's fun!") and Rachel refuses to be seen with her? Tonight I joined a dozen women in an elementary school gym in Northwest Portland - a gym where the lunch tables and benches fold up into the wall; where there's a fine layer of dust across the hardwood floors that as an adult, you don't see anymore but recall immediately. We jumped rope; we ran circles around the gym. We threw footballs and shrieked when poor aim ambushed our gym-mates. An overly eager 20-something body slammed an unsuspecting middle-aged pilates guru during a high stakes game of Octopus. We realized with sadness that our feet had a hard time remembering how to jump across a line, or skip a rope. The event was called Urban Recess. After replaying our childhoods for ninety minutes, we said goodbye. I came home and finished up my tax returns. But it's exciting, and feels deliciously rebellious to know that now Monday night won't just be the end of a long day - it'll be recess.