In the store, at museums. I don't remember being told not to touch things. Just the concern that if I did, I'd be reprimanded.
Now that I'm older, the worry is smaller. I shoo it away. I remind it that I'm grown, no longer a danger due to dirty fingers or clumsy limbs. And even if I were, few adults would speak to me with the authoritative scorn they'd spend without thought on a child.
Antique stores are my favorite. Delicate glass stacked on shelves, fragile white lace and old paintings. I lift a weightless china dinner bell that might crack if rung to hard, and dare to play it even while the proprietor stands guard over the room. The part of me that is still very much an indignant child, disguised by physical age, is delighted.
