Chickening Out


Most of my friends would call me adventurous. I have flown an airplane (once), taken a trapeze lesson (once), jumped off a 35-foot pole (harnessed, but still…).

The reality is I do about 10 brave things and then I do one completely chickenshit thing that makes me question the first 10. This is about a recent chickenshit night.

I had signed up for an (expensive) night in my new town featuring a celebrity chef, food, drinks. I love to cook, and this might just allow me to meet some fellow foodies.

The time came to leave and… I just couldn’t make myself go.

Every day since moving to my new city has been an adventure – finding a place that sells my brand of makeup, finding the kind of turkey I want for Thanksgiving, figuring out how to combine my morning walk to Starbucks with a dogwalk when Starbucks won’t let the dogs in (it involves cajoling strangers to take a slip of paper with my written order along with my gold Starbucks card inside with them…it’s a lot to do pre-caffeinated). The new adventures include walking nearly everywhere because I can and because, really, there is no parking in Charleston that doesn’t involve parallel parking our new car on a narrow street. It has been a joy, honestly.

Except on this night, when I would have killed for a friend to go with me to this event, killed for a big suburban parking garage, killed to know just what one should wear to this kind of event. Just killed for the comfort of the familiar.

And so I bailed. I watched bad television, ate breakfast for dinner, drank a bit too much. Completely hid out.

Because sometimes, the littlest things seem to take the most courage. Ever been in that position? Come on, tell me I’m not the only one who sometimes chickens out.

Haven't we all been chicken?

Haven’t we all been chicken?