Shift, Crank, Pull

You used to hear about adrenaline junkies all the time. Well, I used to hear about them, anyhow. There must be a few left. I want to find one. Hell, I want to be one.

Sure, back in the 70s, the 1970s to be specific, there were thrills to be found in ridiculously reckless driving and various adventures, all of which predated phone cameras and World Wide Watching. Phew!

These days I drive the speed limit. Really. Put your eyebrows down, those of you who knew me when. If you don’t believe it, ask someone who knows me now.

Modern adventures mostly involve a phone call or an email. Nothing that conduces to an anecdote let alone a caper. No more bravado. No more masterminding things. I either walk in the front door (with an appointment if necessary) or I don’t go.

You’d think there would be less stress.

Stop me laughing. No, I mean it. Slap my face if you have to, and then start girding your own loins for the future. What no one tells you is that the kind of stress you have now, drowning in the tsunami of anguish like in that song you were listening to last night, that’s nothing compared to when you get older and worry about other people.

You may feel powerless over your own life, but you’re not. Sooner or later you’ll figure that out. You can do something. It may not be what you want, but there is action you can take. Desolation is when the problem belongs to someone you care about. Throw in some middle-aged hormones that make PMS look like Casual Friday, and you’ll see that adrenaline isn’t always the fist-pumping/shouting good time you thought it was.

Let’s all listen to Go Away White now. If you have to ask why, you may be excused.