I’m in a theater watching a video of a man in turquoise blue undies and hiking boots drag an inflatable raft that looks like a giant slice of pizza up a glacier in Antarctica. He gets to the top, jumps on the pizza raft, and slides down, at warp speed, going straight towards a 30 foot drop off into absolutely freezing water. No wetsuit. With the boat at least 50 feet away. And this is after he rock climbed 3000 feet up a sheer rock face to stand naked at the top with three of his friends, wearing chicken masks. Which was part of a National Geographic expedition where they were swimming with blue whales. And leopard seals. And penguins. And leopard seals eating penguins. And leopard seals offering penguins to the photographers as gifts. And my thought is: comfort is a trap. Comfort is a cage. And comfort is the beginning of old age.
How did I turn into a woman who would rather be home day after day, snuggled under a blanket reading, than a woman who would slide down a glacier in my panties on a huge inflatable slice of pizza? I used to be that woman. I used to be the woman who would jump into freezing water to dive with blue whales. Now I’d be terrified.
What happened to me?
Maybe being so broken by life happened to me. Maybe safety became such a necessity after that . . . that I forgot “safety” was only meant to be temporary—just to get my balance back. Safety wasn’t meant to be forever.
