During my wedding ceremony, one of the things I said to my husband-to-be was, “You’re the more cautious one.” Afterward, a friend came up to me and expressed her total shock about that. In a nice way. She’s a pure delight. But the implication was that she found it really hard to imagine that anyone could be more cautious than I am.
That, to me, is really fascinating.
Okay, standing beside that friend, I’m sure I come off as shy and retiring. She’s amazing. She’s colorful. She’s larger than life. Total strangers will stop her on the street to talk to her. (Which is wonderful, unless you’re with her and happen to be in a hurry.) She lights up every room that she enters. She’s got that indescribable “it” factor. Rock on, my friend!
But my being quiet, thoughtful, and ever-so-slightly slower moving does not necessarily equate with caution. Let’s review:
I’ve been to 19 countries.
I lived in Mexico, all alone, when I was 19.
I spent a summer away from home, doing construction work on an Air Force Base, when I was 16.
I used to camp deep in the forests of Appalachia, a week at a time, with only my dogs for company.
I survived a childhood of sexual abuse.
I have met several friends face to face that I had previously only known on line.
I worked graveyard shift, in total isolation, for 13 years.
I sold my house and moved three hours south, where I knew no one, to go back to college.
I started over, yet again, moving 3100 miles from Florida to Seattle, at age 49. It was a place where I had never been, and where I knew no one.
I managed not to have children despite intense societal pressure.
I got married for the first time at age 53.
Have poured my heart and soul out in this daily blog since 2012, revealing things about myself that many people wouldn’t even have told their best friends.
I’ve published a book.
None of this sounds particularly cautious to me.
I may not be flamboyant or loud or outgoing, but does that mean I’m cautious? Hell to the no!