Roughly two years ago I only consumed oatmeal when it was cooked over a portable stove. I never really ate oatmeal when I was home. That’s because oatmeal was primarily a breakfast dish prepared when I was on an adventure of sorts. Whether it was sleeping on cold floors of log cabins in search of fresh powder, in the Sierra Mountains watching the sun slowly climbing the peaks of the mountains, or on the shores of an Oregon beach suiting up for a surf session.
93% of the time I ate cereal for breakfast, but whenever oatmeal was on the menu, that meant adventure.
Fast forward two years and I’m now eating oatmeal about 80% of the time for breakfast. Now I’m not scaling mountains, diving for sunken treasure, or shredding some gnarly powder bowls everyday, I’m a full time student working at the school recreation center with a mild phobia of people with coughs. Not very exciting I know. Even though the desire to chase an endless vacation haunts me, I have to live with reality and the dullness that it may bring, which doesn’t sting as much as one would think
I’ve come to appreciate a simple life, one where books and television become my escape. It’s not steeped in adventure, but I’m ok with that, and I think that’s what I need, a lifestyle where adventures are not the norm. Adventures come as they please, and certainly micro-adventures happen at least once a week, but for the most part my life is not much different than that of my neighbor’s (ok, maybe my neighbors and I aren’t exactly the same, but close enough).
I now eat oatmeal because I like the taste and it’s ability to fill me up. I no longer expect my days to consist of walking miles or getting my butt handed to me every time I indulge my taste buds, and I like that. It makes me cherish the grand adventures that I do have a lot more.
Until the next big snowfall or swell, I raise my bowl of oatmeal from my comfy couch in honor to those that are out there keeping the flames of adventure burning brightly.