My friend Rockstar (yes, that really is her nickname! Even though she is not technically a rockstar, she is one to everyone who knows her) just turned 40. Hoo-rah. We went to dinner to celebrate last week, and over a platter of ginormous greasy cheeseburgers and fries, we started discussing our Bucket Lists: the things we wish to do before we die.
Among the things Rockstar listed (white water rafting, beating up her soon-to-be-former Brother-in-Law), at number one was this:
Swimming with the Sharks in South Africa.
The woman is deathly afraid of spiders and bears (even the little babies!), and she wants to swim with sharks. “I’ve always loved sharks! They are so cool!”
“You flee screaming at the sight of a cute little fuzzy baby bear, and yet will cuddle with a mindless predatory fish?”
“Where there’s a baby bear, there’s a Mama Bear!” She shudders.
She retorts by asking me about my bucket list. I confess I had never really thought much about it. Its not that I don’t think about my impending mortality (I do), or that death is inconsequential (it is), but rather that I don’t feel a need to fill my life with activity and excitement. For the most part, I am a boring person with a boring life, and for some reason, I’m content to be that way.
Having said that, there are a few things I do wish to accomplish in my life, some experiences I do wish to experience. None are remarkable or exciting, save this one thing, which is what I ultimately shared with Rockstar.
“I’d like to go hang-gliding someday.”
Her eyebrows lift.
“Yeah. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to fly. To just strap on some wings, hop off a mountian, and let the wind carry me down.”