I’ve realized finally that it’s not that it’s not that I’m not adventurous. Rather, I’m adventurous, but only in bursts—much in the same way that I’m sociable. I can’t do it for long stretches of time. However, I also tend to like adventure when there’s some semblance of order in it. This doesn’t preclude spontaneity. Instead it means that spontaneous actions have to occur within certain boundaries (in order for them to be fun, at least). I like trying out new things, being un-cautious—but only briefly, or in the company of someone else for whom these things are not new. A friend once invited me to go out, late at night, climbing on rooftops in a city I didn’t know. This might be something that made me uncomfortable (except in circumstances we’ll get to later), except that she had done this before, many times—and knew what she was doing. I trusted her. And I can very often be flexible, it’s not that; if you spring plans on me, I’ll adapt to them, if they sound enjoyable. But if you want to do something truly novel, for all of us, I need some control, somehow. I don’t get anything out of being lost and unsure; it doesn’t do it for me. But when I have some guidelines—and don’t think that they need to be terribly concrete—I enjoy my adventures a lot more.

Now, a quick explanatory side-note. What I mean by this about not-for-a-long-time is that, should you ask me to be adventurous—go into a new situation, or do something I’ve never done before, and so on—if it’s going to be stressful in some way, the two ways of making it less stressful for me are as follows: One, make it short. Bring me to a friend’s house where I don’t know anyone just for a little while; take me out but then let’s go back in. If I don’t become more comfortable, I’m not going to enjoy staying long. Two, give me some control. Tell me about what we’re doing. (Obviously, usually it’s me doing the deciding on these things.) Would I like to be slightly better at this? Yeah, sure. But it’s not something that particularly bothers me, because it’s so easy to gain some semblance of control. You take small steps, rather than giant ones—you meet people through friends rather than meeting them in completely novel situations. And then when you go through with the larger steps, it’s more fun—because it’s an occasional thing. Now I should point this out, although I doubt you’ll be surprised: this is pretty normal. Most people are like this. Most people hate being put into new situations, exactly for the reasons I’m describing. And that’s not a bad thing.

But the thing is, I am adventurous. Seriously. For a long while, I had it in my head that my not liking to be completely out of my depth was a sign of my not being adventurous, not being spontaneous, not being independent. But no—perhaps that seems to be true to my friends who like this unsure-state, or like boundless, incalculable possibilities. But I prefer my thrills to come from controlled ascents, rather than free falls; I like looking at my options before I choose. I will never be the sort to take an entirely unplanned vacation. This might make me sound staid, but I think that’s missing the point. (Of course I don’t always deliberate each decision! Sometimes I enjoy jumping without looking! But only when other factors are secure.) The point, then, is that my adventuring comes from a different route: one where questions are asked and advice sought. I would never climb a mountain without a map, and maybe a guidebook. If not that, then at least I would want to be going into my climbing having read about the route, or being with someone who knew the mountain well. In some sense I would enjoy being the leader, discovering it on my own—but my mode of discovery would be to ask people, or park rangers, to get a map, to bring a compass. I’ve been lost in the woods, before (not terribly lost), and it’s not a lot of fun. If I were to be set adrift somewhere, could I figure things out? Sure. But why would that be fun? (If it were a contest, maybe.) My thrill-seeking mind wouldn’t be piqued by the supposed-joy of discovery if I were confused, lost, and anxious. And why shouldn’t that be the case? Such ways are not in my genes.

What does it really mean for me to being a structured adventurer? Not what it might sound like, perhaps. I do not mean “structured” as listed out, described, ordered, organized—although it is true that I love list-making—but rather in a more literal sense. My structure comes in mental arrangement: my mind needs to grasp the factors involved in what I’m doing. Really, I mean that I must have asked relevant questions and gotten answers. A friend once asked me: “If I shouted ‘Duck!’ at you, would you duck immediately, or ask me why first?” For me the answer was, of course, that I would ask why. (As seems obvious, were we in any of the circumstances wherein immediate response would be obvious and expected (e.g., a war, a water-balloon fight, laser-tag), of course I would duck.) I don’t think this is a problem with trust, or with control: if the command was “Look to your left!”, of course I would look. The problem is the more basic one of congruity: when things are incongruous, I am uncomfortable.

We’ve come rather far afield, but I think that in some sense we’ve hit exactly on the root of it. I am not a person who likes disorder. Show me geometry! Show me arrangement! Intentional incongruity or disorder can be intriguing, or even beautiful. But accidental confusion? Why should I ever settle?

I wrote this mostly on the airplane coming here. It’s not bad for a sort of free-flowing sort of thing, I guess? (I mentioned I would post this a few days ago, no?)