Enchanted Rock near Fredericksburg, Texas is a huge, pink granite dome that rises 425 feet above ground and covers 640 acres. Photo courtesy of Flick'r Creative Commons and boydbrooks999
“I always told myself that if I weren't interesting, at least I'd lie,” Jerry said as he leaned back in his chair at the dinner table. “Don't you want to tell your car accident story again—this time with more drama?” He arched his eyebrows and sipped his glass of Chardonnay.
“No thanks. Not right now.” I smiled, but flat irony seeped into my voice. We were seated in a restaurant deep in the heart of Texas, and I wasn't in the mood to relive my rollover into the ditch.
Jerry's request for more excitement contrasted with Sarah Susanka's wisdom in the Not So Big Life, which I listened to as I drove to Texas. Susanka claims adrenaline has become our drug of choice. I know that's been true for me. There was a time when I might have milked my accident's play-by-play for all it was worth—or at least tried to.
But tall tales and the BIG LIFE come at a cost I'm becoming less willing to pay. If I don't start rebuilding my life without adrenaline as core operating system, my body will probably get locked in some sort of chronic condition.
During my one-week vacation in Texas, I eased past my basic physical therapy exercises. I hiked to the top of Enchanted Rock on a sunny, 80-degree day. I took as much time as I pleased to bike the long hill to a lookout the locals call “Bat Cave.” Before dinner each night, I sipped a glass of Cabernet and settled into laid-back conversation with friends.
When I returned home, my chiropractor noticed my miraculous, post-accident progress. “It must be the vitamin D,” he quipped. “You were probably deficient.”
“You're probably right,” I replied. I cracked a half-smile when I thought about my Not-So-Big state of mind and the Lone Star slogan, “Everything's bigger in Texas.” Wink, wink.