What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger?

Perhaps, then, I will never die. Or I could just be like that grandma who lifted the car off her smushed grandson somewhere in Nebraska. And you know, I’ve been to Nebraska, and that didn’t kill me either despite the lack of coffee shoppes and that bachelorette party I joined up with.

My boss and I were talking today about the things that almost killed us; the things we didn’t think we’d get through. She had a rough time in the past, and took gambles that were sometimes frightening enough to preclude her from a night’s sleep. I could sympathize. I’ve spent money and time and energy on things with the fear that I’d end up at the end of it all alone and sharting myself behind a park bench in a city that’s charming and clever like Worcester, Massachusetts.

But gambling has been worth it. Anytime I have played it safe, it hasn’t panned out. And something tells me I won’t be drinking Boone’s Farm wine and going to the bathroom between two cars.