Comfort zone
I have no desire to hang glide, sky-dive, bungee jump, or even ride a roller coaster. To be honest, I really, really love to read in bed. Don’t get me wrong; I also like to travel, work out, hike, canoe, and dance. I’m just a bit of an introvert and not a risk-taker and don’t even watch scary movies because, well, they’re scary.
But this year I’ve pushed myself to do things that scare me. First, I hiked 50 miles of the Appalachian Trail with some friends. It involved carrying a 35-pound pack on my back and sleeping in a tent in the tick-filled, snake-ridden, bear-infested wilderness and walking uphill a lot. My shoulders ached so much I wasn’t sure I could go on after Day 3. I found a fat tick on the back of my head. I sweated. My feet hurt. I had to huddle in a shelter while thunder and lightening and sheets of rain crashed down on the mountain ridge where we were camping. And I loved it.
Last week, I ran three legs in the Hood to Coast relay race in Oregon. I’m not a runner and I’ve never run a race in my life and I didn’t start training until July. But suddenly it was race day and there I was, running three miles in the dark along a trail in the city, five miles at the edge of a paved road along the Nehalem River, another five miles uphill on a gravel path, down onto the beach in Seaside. My legs cramped up and I didn’t sleep for 24 hours and 90% of the people running were decades younger than I am and my stomach hurt. But it was big fun. I loved that, too.
Now, I’m doing the scariest thing of all, publishing a novel about characters I’ve grown to love, who make bad choices and do things that hurt people they love. None of the characters are “me,” but they’re all parts of me. People will read it and judge them, and some people will hate them, and that’s scary. It feels, to be honest, like standing naked in the town square (if towns still had squares). It’s way outside my comfort zone.
But I’m doing it anyway. What’s outside your comfort zone?