A Reckless Deadline

My 20s are almost behind me, with one year to go.

According to my bff in her birthday card to me, we have exactly one year of recklessness remaining. Well, not recklessness. But the recklessness that can be later written off with a dash of devil-may-care-I-was-in-my-20s-so-it-was-justified.

So what should I do for this requisite recklessness? Jump out of an airplane? That’s on my bucket list, but shouldn’t I wait until I’m closer to Death before laughing in its face, flinging myself out into the open and hoping a flimsy piece of nylon prevents us from actually meeting?

Um, that sounds like a good plan.

Maybe I should party until dawn. But my birthday celebration was more low-key than temerarious tippling. Oops.

Maybe it was the change in venue.

This year I left behind my beloved Landmark Tavern, where I celebrated the past two years, for a not-so-busy Busy Bee, resulting in a quiet table discussion with drinks among my group.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Why do we use our birthdays each year to hit the pause button and reflect on our lives thus far? Does my multi-paragraph pondering really allow me to step back and get a 360-view of the space time continuum of Jennifer?

If so, the view I have is looking pretty good. As I get older, I get less reckless, sure. But also more adventurous.

So instead of using this one-year deadline to get “reckless” out of my system, maybe I’ll just take advantage of getting older to be bolder.

Maybe I will jump out of that airplane this year. That’s bold no matter what your age.

Then again, I think I’d rather go hang gliding.  Does that count?

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