At seventeen, I weighed 60 kilos (130 pounds bro) and played hard rugby. I threw my body at 220-pound future national team players and walked away with three medals and zero fractures. At forty-three, I tweaked a neck muscle while sneezing. I had to cancel a dinner.

I used to steal my father’s Nissan after midnight. I’d coast it down the driveway in neutral so the engine wouldn’t wake him, then tear up a grocery store parking lot doing donuts until the tires cried.

Now I sit in the passenger seat of an Uber and my foot pumps a phantom brake every time the driver accelerates toward a yellow light. Driver’s unbothered. I’m gripping the door handle and sweating through my shirt. I’m the jumpy geek from Honey I Shrunk the Kids that I swore I’d never be.

At nineteen, I buzzed around on a scooter in flip-flops, no helmet, a woman I’d just met holding onto my waist. I dragged my knee on a turn just to feel alive. I remember feeling so good scratching those scabs while watching Battlestar Galactica.

Today I read crash test reports for random cars to be ready when I can afford them. I won’t ride a bicycle unless it’s bolted to the floor gym and I’ve located all three exits.

So what changed? The obvious answer is I got smarter.

The less comfortable answer is I’ve spent two decades stockpiling fear.

Divorce hands you a big, ugly inventory of all the things that can go wrong. Living alone completes the collection.

When you’re the only one in your apartment, you know with perfect clarity that if you slip in the shower, no one’s coming. The smell will eventually inform the neighbors. So you buy the non-slip mat.

You text a friend your hiking route. You stop doing donuts because now you’d be the one calling the tow truck and explaining to the mechanic…while also trying to make a therapy session on time.

I’m also starting to suspect my daring isn’t gone. It’s just been reassigned.

My real terror these days isn’t a collarbone snap but saying “I love you” first after a divorce.

It’s giving someone a key to your place. It’s sitting alone at a restaurant with a book and not giving a damn who watches. That’s the high-wire act.

A broken arm mends in weeks. Broken faith takes years and a standing appointment with a therapist.

How about you? When did you stop doing donuts…and start bracing for a collision that never comes in a car that isn’t even moving?

#SingleAndSane #DivorceHumor #SolitudeStories #MiddleAge #Courage #Funny #MidLife #StartingOver