On the way to work, I see such diversity.  Cars of every make and color.  People of different race, appearance and age.  Stopping at a coffee house, I look around me as I wait for my latte – one of about seventy different choices and possible combinations.  Most of the people around are getting younger than me – a phenomenon I’ve observed over the last few, graying years.

The barista has a silver loop in his lip and dark, painted fingernails.  A young man sitting on a bench, entertaining some children, has two large silver hoops in his ears and a shaved head.  An Asian woman is talking with a friend, all the while being circled by her daughter.

I wouldn’t choose the hoops, loops or hairstyles, despite having my own ear pierced 35 years ago in a less accepting time and place.  I wouldn’t drive a gas-guzzling SUV, though my old pickup is not a green vehicle by any stretch.

Yet I embrace the choice: the choice to be colorful, different, even wacky.  The choice to live among those who do not look like me, act like me, talk like me.  I’ll take the chances, the tries, the long shots and the calculated risks.

In the face of the stress and loss often entailed, this path is the only one I can live.  Cooped up in a secure job, in a safe place, hidden away from the swirling eddies of life, would not be life for me.  If I’m here, taking my turn wandering around on the planet, I want to fill my time with adventure and the correlated mis-adventure.  I want to see lots of places, talk with lots of people, observe different ways and decide for myself what is better, not just what is common, normal or usual to a place or time.

If that means that I see people and things that are shocking, then so be it.  If the choice is between subdued and comfortable or loud and risky, then sign me up for the latter.  Life has to be full, rich, entertaining, and engaging.  Toward that end, I’ll take the wackos, any day.