Dirty BBQ and Regret

There have been times, too numerous to count, when I have decided to not do something solely because of fear. When I was a kid, I was fearless. I would have said yes to just about anything crazy, and not once did I ever regret the actual doing of said crazy things. I don't know when I became such an utter weenie.

There comes a point, though, when fear of mortality seeps into the real possibility of never doing those scary fun things because you've waited too long, and you're too close to actual mortality to get your old broken ass up into that plane/hot air balloon/bungee bridge.

I've been trying to roll out of that comfortable weenie bun. Sometimes I think I need medication for occasional anxiety related to facing a hot death head-on; like eating from the crusty food truck outside of town, because their BBQ is delicious even though they only have an outhouse and I don't see any running water like in a sink with soap. Or on a roller coaster which might be that one in a million car that derails and I-forgot-to-hug-my-kid-before-we-boarded-this-thing can-I-squeeze-him-while-we-are-going-up-this-giant-hill-before-we-plummet-to-our-deaths?

Not once have I ever thought, I'm so glad I didn't do that awesome thing because look - those people had fun and it killed them. Not once have I thought, Whew! I'm not dead because I stayed home in my fluffy robe on my semi-comfy couch with my safe-but-tasteless BBQ from the freezer aisle and I read a book about other people doing ACTUAL THINGS and being all willy-nilly with their living selves. Not Once. 

Regret is a disease, more easily prevented than cured.


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