My college friend Mike used to say “If the summit were the objective, mountain climbers would use helicopters.”
Yeah, he once turned his acoustic guitar into a bong and was quite possibly a sociopath, but I always dug the sentiment, that you were supposed to enjoy the effort it took to scramble to the top—if not revel in it. After yet another sleepless night in which I alternately stared down my fast-approaching thirtieth birthday and sifted through the wreckage of my twenties, I’ve decided to change my approach.
For the next 38 days—until my odometer changes to Three-Zero—I’ll be the one frantically trying to flag down a chopper.
