Since I’ve gotten older, some things that once seemed romantic and adventurous now just seem ludicrous and unsanitary. And now I can scratch them off my bucket list because no mildly dysfunctional 30-year-old mother of two with back problems should attempt them.
Attending Bonnaroo. I am about to embark on my second season of life with a newborn, so I’m actually quite experienced in foregoing showering in favor of wandering around in dizzying circles to the tune of screeching strangers. Sure, those strangers are millionaire musicians and mine is an eight-pound baby, but it’s basically the same thing.
Bungee Jumping. Okay, real talk: I don’t think this was ever a legitimate option. I did go sky diving once and would maaaaaybe consider doing that again if heavily inebriated.
Getting a tattoo. They are not hip or subversive anymore. Pretty sure most of the moms at Addison’s Baptist pre-school have ink.
Staying in hostels. If my accommodations run the risk of my stumbling into a pair of chatty, naked, Spanish travelers at 8 a.m.* when I am trying to brush my teeth, then I’m going to pass on that trip.
Running a marathon. Those five hours would probably cost me about a year of training, dozens of pre-dawn Saturday wake-ups after declining delicious brown ales on the preceding Friday nights, hours away from my boo and my babies, choking down about 138 salted caramel gu’s and more peeing in public than I am comfortable with at this stage in my life. I’ll stick with the 13.1’s and under, thanks.