Danger is my middle name

I cleaned my blinds yesterday. Okay, I admit it—an odd spring day in which I’m compelled to clean blinds occurs every, oh, three to four years—and cleaning one’s blinds in and of itself doesn’t constitute danger.  However, listening to Zumba tunes while cleaning one’s blinds may—if one performs fancy maneuvers on the stepstool.

And what of my ambitions of walking to the nearby, yet-to-open Baskin Robbins? Yes, it’s within a half mile of my house. No problem there; I love to walk. But, no, there isn’t a walk signal allowing me to cross the very busy five-lane highway safely. What wouldn’t I do for a heavenly BR chocolate almond cone? Not much. As I told my husband upon the BR sighting, “Good heavens! This could be dangerous!”

But I'm prepared. I already live on the edge:

1.      I eat chocolate. It makes my heart race.

2.      I eat sugar. It leaves me wanting more.

3.      I drink wine. It disrupts my sleep.

4.      I zumba. It causes me to jump around in wild abandon--in other words, I’m an accident waiting to happen.

I don't, however, climb rocks, parachute, ride bulls, dive in caves, snow ski, hang glide, shave my head, or get tattoos.  But, hey, I live dangerously in my own quiet way.