Migratory birds probably feel like this, or burglars trying to stay clean but finding themselves driving by Securitas cash depots that aren't on their way home.... A longing. A pang. Some insistent pheromonal whiff calling, and, like a little kid hopping up and down with his hands between his legs, I gotta go.
With my office door shut, furtively at my desk in suburban Virginia, instead of reading about hyperbaric medicine or deciding what we're having for dinner ( Turkey Sausage might be nice...it's easy and those squishy Martin's Potato Roll buns. Oooh. Yes. Those are good. Do we have buns? Hmm. Maybe I should get some buns. It's all about the buns, really.Or maybe I'll try stir-fry again. God. Am I up for another a mound of swampy disaster and all those murdered carrots? I don't know if I can stand it. Turkey sausage. That's the safe way to go...), I am seeking Adventure.
I am just noodling around the edges of Adventure, really, trailing my toes in The Bubbling Pool of Adventure where well-muscled, Chicklet-toothed, and tuque'd people beam at me, their smile lines, etched by squinting into a Serengeti distance, are beautiful. They beckon bobbing in that pool, that Rocky mountain campfire where they monitor wolf migration or a hundred feet into an Amazonian jungle canopy where they take notes on the courting ritual of purple toads the size of nickles who live their lives in the tops of trees."Come in and bob around with us and our perfect teeth," they say, "We are so handsome and fulfilled."
I find myself perusing web sites suggesting Surveying Aid/Technician position intriguingly described as being located in "Back Country/Wilderness." I am pulling the little phone number tabs off the bottom of "Roadie Wanted: Heavy Lifting. Must Have Most Fingers"