I’ve never had a broken bone. Not a cast, not a stitch, not a single trip to the emergency room. My old cautious soul and hindering need to keep both feet on the floor have guided me through almost four decades of unremarkable health history. Sure, I’m grateful for a thin medical file, but I can’t help but wonder what exhilaration has alluded me as I let worry trump living.
On my bike, I brake all the way down the hill rather than let the winder rush through my hair. When I hike, I opt for the well traveled trail. I refuse all but the most infantile amusement park rides and only took a passing try at ice skating before an anxious inner voice cautioned me back into my tennis shoes. Instead of thinking “What might happen if?” I now think “What did I miss?” Maybe I would have wound up writhing in pain on the ice, or maybe I would have experienced an incredible feeling of joy as I glided across it. As I get older, I am resigned. I’ll never be a thrill seeker, but I regret my hesitations.
Perhaps I am being idealistic and placing way too much responsibility for my happiness on physical pursuits, but my fear of broken bones has led me to a rather constricting way of life. I don’t want to miss out on carnival rides or mountain biking with my son. Most of all, I don’t want to shackle him with fear of getting hurt.
In my next 40 years, I hope I can shake this apprehension, just a little. I hear roller blades are coming back into fashion.
1 comment:
I like this piece being about regret without much (if any) actually use of the word regret! very nice.
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