In trouble

"How much trouble are you in this week"? 

That's what I was going to ask one of my friends (and probably will).

Affectionately.

Wryly.

Perhaps even with a touch of envy.

While I couldn't manage the life that they (he/she) lead, I'm still fascinated by their adventures.

I tend to avoid drama, if at all possible. Having a two teens in the house (one with a flair for role-play, the other one plagued with an Augustinian conscience Martin Luther might envy) takes about all of the fortitude I can channel.

Yet I also have an innate distaste for convention.

That means that I'm not comfortable with social norms that perhaps would, if I just gave in (gave up?) make my life a whole lot simpler.

In addition, I don't have a high need for emotional security, the kind that sends so many of us in America cavorting from one relationship to another in search of that elusive swaddled feeling.

But trouble -- don't you think life would be more fun if we all got into trouble more often?

At least occasionally?

What if we wore something that wasn't our "color"?

Went somewhere way off our beaten track?

Contacted one of our roguish relatives (sadly, most of mine are gone)?

Marched on Washington?

Stayed up all night with a friend, debating politics AND religion (and sure, sex, too)?

Every now and then, we all have a yearning to bust out of the routine, and take that rabbit trail.

What's the worst that can happen to you? That great-aunt Martha tells you what a pain in the butt you were when you were six?

There's big trouble (as in, you lost your history notes for the test, you are in big trouble) and then there is little trouble.

Only you can decide which one suits your lifestyle the most.

Start practicing. 

We're gonna want to know the whole sordid story.