Let me start by saying that I do not understand thrill seekers. I don’t understand people who throw themselves down ski slopes, people who do intense week-long camping trips with only a single matchstick and a knife, bungee jumpers, roller coaster fanatics, or the entirety of Bear Grylls’ oeuvre. I cannot imagine waking up one day and saying to myself, “You know, the day to day slog of life isn’t enough for me—I need to climb an ice-covered mountain, live in a cave, and catch a wild grouse for dinner. You know, for fun.” I don’t need to shake things up—the greatest measure of success in my life is the almost complete absence of unnatural stressors. After surviving the abuse of my childhood and the poverty of my early adult life, I’m not seeking out ways to put myself in danger. I filled up on the entree of character-building misery before I was even ten years old, so I think I’ll skip the unnecessary risk dessert course, thank you.
Unnecessary risk is a very modern privilege. If you are over 40, your grandparents grew up accidentally eating asbestos and dropping out of school to work heavy machinery by age 12, which is why they raised children who now don’t think your depression is real; any misery in their lives was unwelcome, disastrous, and often permanent. I was raised by that generation of people, and have always thought the point of life was to avoid danger as much as possible. I understand needing to push the boundary for the ocassional thrill, but if you are otherwise emotionally vacant and bungee jumping just to feel alive, we are probably not going to hang out.
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