I’ve reached a peculiar stage in life.  One where I know the famous people who die instead of simply being familiar with names in the headlines.  Almost all of my friends are either married or divorced, and many have kids who are middle school aged or older.  More girlfriends than not are dealing with gray hair, and discussing aches and pains isn’t exactly an unusual topic of conversation.

I find as I tilt toward the second half of my life that there are certain experiences I most decidedly want to miss.

My (Rolling) Anti-Bucket List
  • Flipping a car.  I never want to experience that odd weightlessness as a car flips end over end.  Hanging from my seatbelt.  Being pulled from my vehicle by rescue workers.  And I most certainly never want to check the backseat to see how my children fared after being tossed about like balls juggled at the circus.
  • Encounters of the Unusual Kind.  Meeting an octopus up close and personal.  Coming face to face with a great white (or any type of) shark.  The feeling of being sucked into quicksand, knowing I’ll suffocate in a pit of graininess.  Finding myself trapped in small, deep, dark caves.
  • Being responsible for performing any type of medical intervention on my child.  CPR.  The Heimlich maneuver.  Stabilizing a compound fracture.  Using a defibrillator.  All interventions that belong firmly in the medical community.
  • Performing the Heimlich on my dog.  Yes.  This is really a thing.  And it’s a thing that I really don’t want to do.
  • Back surgery.  My back sucks.  It truly does.  But even through the bad days – the aching, the sharp pain, the spasms or weakness – I would still rather manage this instead of enduring rehab after back surgery.
  • Wearing a cast.  Particularly one on my foot, leg, or ankle.  Although an arm cast wouldn’t be so convenient either.  I hear they’re itchy.  And you can’t get them wet so hello, personal hygiene.  Put one on my leg, add crutches, and then we’re off to the races.  The odds that I’d break another body part raise exponentially while hobbling around on crutches so, in sum, casts = bad news.

And that’s all I’ve got to say about that.  For now, anyway.