When I was younger, I did a lot of things. Mine was a life full of rich, unusual stories.
Not unlike anyone else.
I lived abroad, and wore every hat imaginable. I walked across hot coals, spent a Christmas in Amsterdam and paid a small, possibly homeless child to electrocute me with a car battery while on a tequila binge in Mexico.
I sought out the strangest of miracles at every turn. I lived recklessly and in excess, and developed more fantastic memories and experiences than time allows mention.
Somewhere along the line, however, my memories have softened into Hallmark moments. My experiences are all work related; they’ve become little more than marketable skills–a job history on a resume.
It’s not unlike earning merit badges when I was a cub scout, though these days my merit badges are computer knowledge and job-related work history.
It’s got to be an age thing. Most of my friends are experiencing the same G-rated conversion in life, though most of them have done so due in no small part to that whole procreation thing. We used to drink till dawn and dine with the gods. Now, we go to brunch at kid-friendly restaurants.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that don’t get me wrong.
My point isn’t about making babies. We can burn that bridge some other time.
My point is that where I once howled at the moon, I now scream at traffic. Once I walked on fire, now I walk on eggshells. The occurrences in my life have become predictable and safe–normal.
And lord knows, I’m not a normal person.
There is very little chaotic beauty out there, brought about by a random series of events that time together to create those miracles.
I can’t remember the last time one of my stories ended with, “and then a one-armed midget pulled me out of the snow drift.” There’s no “random” hiding around any corners.
Or maybe I’m just not looking hard enough.