An adventure gone undone, or sloppily executed is an adventure gone to waste. My adventures are planned with care and deliberation. I consult with experts to plan the simplest adventure. A trip to the other end of the county calls for a check of the running gear on my vehicle, a packed lunch, and water and snacks for the pooch. It also calls for quick message to my personal assistant to remind her to look in on the dogs, check for open windows and doors, and to trigger interior lighting after sundown, including the bank of halogens on the garage.
The reason for my performance-related panic is due to the fact that I suffer from severe, late onset, anxiety disorder, which makes simple adventures or interactions like strolling down the street a disproportionately tensile experience. One of the signifiers of social anxiety is a heightened sense of alertness. The sound of skateboard wheels whirring around the street corner creates a sliver of unease. A bike bell ringing behind me causes me to grit my teeth and raise my iron-tipped cane in order to ready myself for a strike across the rider’s brow, or a quick jab at the bikes spokes.
Her mother named her Adventure. Adventura, formally, but shortened when she started middle school. She was a tomboy. Wearing low-top sneakers, a scraggly ponytail, and a baggy T-shirt—one of the many outfits in her tomboy oeuvre. She avoided tattoos and any piercings because of her ancestry, and her grandmother, who thought they were disfiguring, disgusting, dumb and dull. Adventure didn’t need anything to decorate her body but her shiny, spellbinding eyes, and her mysterious smile. To say the least, she was a tall, thin, knockout. All the boys loved her. The girls loved her, and the gods loved her.