The Older I Get, The Less Recreation and Adventure I Want!

Hi, again, all my family, friends, fiends, foes and funky folks!

Let’s have a moment of silence for the death of my adventurous self.

Here is a “backstage pass to the brain of Dean” kind of stuff. I was looking at some old photos the other day — pictures of me in my 20s and 30s, hair a bit fuller, waist a bit thinner, with a look in my eyes that screamed, “What’s next, let’s go?!” We were always on the move. A spontaneous road trip? Let’s go. An all-night brain storming/music session? You bet. A weekend spent in Branson or Six Flags Over Mid America, tearing up theme parks, riding every roller-coaster until we were dizzy? Absolutely.

Fast forward to today. The spirit is still willing, oh, yes, my friends. The rock and roll heart still beats just as loud. But the body… Well, the body sometimes sends back a memo that just says, “Nope, please don’t do that to me again, or I’ll make you pay for it.”

It’s a strange and very humbling realization. The older I get, the smaller my list of desired recreational activities seems to become. It’s not that I don’t want to have fun; it’s that my definition of a good time has evolved from seeking adrenaline to seeking, well, just not pulling any muscles that I haven’t used in a while.

Let me give you some examples from the front lines.

Exhibit A: The Bowling Alley of Broken Dreams.