The Grass is Never Greener

I've lived a pretty uninteresting life, story-wise. I couldn't regale you with tales of riding on car hoods, or getting drunk and breaking into some place. I've never been drunk, never even touched a drug, and married the same woman that was my first kiss.

The one stupid thing I did in my life, happened the night before my wedding shower. Some friends and I went sledding at the biggest hill in town, and noticed a ramp someone had built at the bottom of said hill. I guess this is where my common sense throughout life failed me, and I decided to jump that ramp.

I couldn't tell you exactly why I had that thought, perhaps I was seeking some last attempt at a ridiculous story to tell before I got married. I couldn't tell you exactly why I told my friend to stand behind it until I was halfway down the hill so that I could steer toward it, and I'm sure he couldn't tell you exactly why he listened instead of telling me what a stupid idea it was.

According to him, I had to have gotten at least 10 feet in the air. The problem here is, I didn't fall off -- I stayed sitting flat on my butt, on a sled that was well off the ground, and landed it perfectly... against the upward slope of another hill.

The rest of my night is pretty uninteresting; hobbling toward the car with my friend's help, getting driven home while lying in the back seat, and falling asleep halfway through "A Scanner Darkly" while my friends snuck out aren't part of the epic sledding jump tale I should be telling. But like I said, I've lived a boring life -- to me, this isn't a "Oh man! You should have seen it!" story. It is a reminder of why I love the life I have chosen.

Like probably everyone else, my mind wanders sometimes. I start to think about the experiences I may have missed out on in life. I am not my Uncle Andy, able to talk about the time he was hiking through Scotland and ran into Phil Collin's property caretaker, who said he was welcome to stay the night at Phil's mansion if he needed a place -- no, he wasn't there before you ask. I am not even my brother with, I'm sure, countless stories about roommates, and bartending, and parties, and traveling the US to do bird counts, and past loves.

But everytime I stop and think about not having those stories to tell, my tailbone aches. A bitter reminder of the one time that I did do something worthy enough to talk about, and I regret it constantly. I may think that living on my own, and traveling the world, and getting completely wasted, would have been fun experiences to have, but they aren't the life for me.

I've found a woman I'm completely in love with, and had a daughter that brightens my day the second I walk in the door. I can handle not having any epic stories to tell. But whenever I think the grass may have been greener on the other life path, my tailbone hurts like hell, and I remember that I'm happy exactly where I am.