My friends will tell you that I've never been on the adventurous side. If I find a particular type of coffee that I like or a certain brand of clothing that fits perfectly, I hardly see the point in trying something new. Yeah, I know I'm probably missing out on all sorts of good stuff, but I'm already happy with the stuff I'm partaking in.
I can remember being in a car once with my dad in my early twenties. He liked to listen to jazz and one day he popped in a jazz tape. It was okay and I thought it might be kind of fun to pursue, but pursuing something that might be fun or enriching only to find out that it was neither didn't make any sense to me. I already knew what type of music I liked.
At the time, I was a head-banging, heavy-metal guy with the long hair and a fake leather coat to prove it. To spend time listening to anything else made me feel like I was missing out on the complete heavy-metal experience. I had more bands to discover and more obscure cassettes (yes, this was pre-CD days) to track down.
As limiting as it sounds, I do eventually branch out. When I hear another type of music that moves me on the radio, or when I hear people talking about a book in a genre I wouldn't normally read, but for some reason it seems to be calling my name, then I'll try something new. And that's the key for me—I must be drawn to something rather than thinking that it might be interesting.
I am already intrigued in many different areas of life. And if I am going to experience them in a deeper fashion—something I feel is a must if I'm going to enjoy them and grow from them—then I have to limit myself. I recently referenced a quote from Jan Karon's book A Light from Heaven that seems to fit here. One of the main characters in the book, Cynthia, turns to Father Tim at one point and quotes Henry Canby: "Live deep instead of fast."
Thankfully, my friends haven't written me off as a lost cause yet. They seem to understand my way of thinking, but they aren't afraid to push me a little once in a while. A few weeks ago, a friend bought me something she called "chocolate pop." The thought of such a thing grossed me out, and I would have never tried such a thing on my own, but I drank it anyway. It tasted sort of like chocolate milk with a hint of something else I couldn't identify.
That "something else" did two things for me—it made me take a mental note to never buy chocolate pop and it reminded me of the fact that I like my way of doing things.
