Danger’s my Middle Name

I never fill a drinking glass more than half-full. I don’t believe I have ever in my life allowed a microwave to count down all the way to zero for fear it would overheat. While my father, a firefighter, ran into burning buildings and my oldest brother enjoyed hang gliding, I drove with one foot on the brake — just in case.
Once, in Paris, after lunch on the lowest level of the Eiffel Tower my wife suggested we ride to the top. I refused and she went by herself.
I’m so cautious it sometimes feels like I must be the package of some fragile and important item that I carry around inside me. I’m tall, to discourage attackers, and thick to prevent breakage. I’m also uncommonly careful. I have never been in a fight or gotten arrested.
I did drive a motorcycle back and forth to class in college but the engine had half the power of your average riding lawnmower and the giant chain I carried to lock it up safe was nearly as heavy as the cycle.
But in old age and against my will I’ve become a daredevil. Parkinson’s Disease has made my balance inconsistent at best. Often and unexpectedly I take a wrong step and careen wildly across the room like a landlubber in sudden squall, trying to grab a handful of something fixed and heavy.
During a recent move, three of the boxes marked “fragile” I was carrying flew 10 feet, landing softly and safely in ivy while I tripped, landed awkwardly on cement and spent most of the night in an emergency room.
Just staying upright is a challenge now and climbing unfamiliar staircases is a feat worthy of applause from the Flying Wallendas.
Sometimes the television shows young people skiing off mountains or jumping from cliffs. Some may think it shows guts. Danger may be attractive once in a while, during a vacation. But, as you might guess, I’m not a fan of taking on unnecessary risks. My guess is even those who court danger would think it had lost its charm when it moves in with you and watches constantly, waiting for you to make a mistake.