I would never have described myself as being overly adventurous in my youth. I wasn’t afraid to try new things in my teens and early twenties but my limits for risky undertakings were much higher then and now my willingness to live on the edge (or a reasonable facsimile of the edge) has completely diminished.
I have not felt the desire for wanderlust that seems to be an affliction for so many of my friends. I am content to live vicariously through the tales of their adventures and to witness their triumphs through the photographic journey that they provide as a backdrop for the narrative of their experience.
I have always been a homebody. I prefer a “staycation” to a long line in an airport terminal with the risk of acquiring some form of contagious bacteria to bring home as a souvenir. I would not go so far as to say that I have become a recluse but the evidence is mounting and the verdict could completely contradict my argument for my defense.
Where once I would brave the terrain and the elements, I now shy away from driving in bad weather. I don’t like driving at night anymore because my eyesight feels somewhat compromised in the dark and I make the excuse that it is for the safety of the other drivers on the road. And I shrink into my couch every time gale force winds undulate through the bare branches and howl outside of my window.
But I have come to realize that my plight is not one of fear. It is one of freedom. I have allowed myself to be just that, myself. I am not going to jump behind the wheel of my car because someone thinks I am paranoid and I want to prove them wrong. I make no excuses. I ask for no sympathy. I simply live the way I want to live. I am quite content to sit in my living room with my computer in my lap and blog about the fact that I am comfortable becoming THIS person.