June 30, 2024
I’ve long avoided the word “adventure” — for multiple reasons.
For one, I cannot stand the word’s appalling semantic creep. Once upon a time, “adventure” meant something very similar to this piece’s title. Now, however, it means something much weaker than that — basically, anything even remotely diverting or amusing. The once-grand “adventure” has become a simple synonym for “outing” or “errand”.
I’m going on an adventure to the mall!
Uh, hardly.
More significantly, though, I avoid the word “adventure” because I simply do not enjoy adventure. Not the watered-down version, and certainly not the robust version.
I don’t like to free climb; I don’t like to evangelize; I don’t like to back-country ski; I don’t like to hitchhike; I don’t like to go dancing; I don’t like to travel alone; I don’t like to drive at night; I don’t like to attend concerts; I don’t even like to go to well-woman visits.
I’m a recalcitrantly anxious person — and accordingly, I tend to avoid any and all activities that bear a measurable risk of emotional, spiritual, or physical loss.
[Note: Parenthood is the obvious exception here.]
And yet — and yet — while *I* didn’t seek out adventure… adventure nevertheless sought out *me*.