Welcome to my Quater-life Crisis

I grew up in suburbia; I went to college; I have a job that has nothing to do with this site, and I live in New York City, which is about as far away from the outdoors as you can get.  And up until a year ago, my vacations sounded like everyone else’s.  Then, I snapped.  When I looked back on the last five years—the five years since I graduated school, my early twenties, the prime of years of my life—I was ashamed of how little I’d really lived.  I was wasting precious time.  If I died tomorrow, I’d be full of regret.  These next five years would be different.

The things I liked best and remember most, I didn't do them because they were easy.  I did them because they were hard.  Before I went trekking in the Arctic, the last time I went camping was as a boy scout, fifteen years ago.  When I got on Rebel's back and went sprinting through the desert, that was the first time I rode a horse.  I lost sleep thinking about how to use a compass the night before throwing myself into the wilderness; and my legs shook uncontrollably the first time Rebel took off.  But I'll never forget either of those moments.

Now, my friends roll their eyes when I tell them about my next adventure (my own mother, included).  Even I wonder how long I can keep making up for every second lost to the ticking clock—one-upping myself each time.  But then I feel regret creeping up behind me and I book the next flight: the next adventure that makes me just the right amount scared so I can feel just a little more alive.