the day of birth

Twenty-seven. Geesh.

I'm starting to bank into that second corner already. Not that it really matters. I don't particularly feel too old to do what I want in this life. I don't feel like "it's all slipping away" and I'd better hurry up and get depressed because clearly my chances have passed me by. Pah. (Noise of dismissive disgust, if you're wondering.)

What I do feel, however, is a twinge of regret that I have gotten this far without doing anything particularly awesome. I've got that whole independent stability thing down. I'm self-sufficient and debt free and responsible and living at a comfortable standard.

But I positively stink at risks. Well, I might be good at them. I don't know. I don't generally take them, at leat not the big hairy ones. Is this a good thing or a bad thing? I don't know that either. There are definite plusses to my current life. I'm secure. I'm stable. I get to do what I want most of the time.

And yet...the sense that something's missing remains. Haunting me just about every day--not simply on my birthday. A tickle in the back of my brain. And itchy sort of "what if" that sneaks up on me in the middle of my morning coffee.

Well, bring it on, life! I may not be a great risk-taker, but nor am I one to back down and give up. Let's see what this year has in store--and if I do go down, let it be in the midst of a grand adventure, both guns blazing.