I may have a problem. Maybe not.
Over the last few years, I’ve determined I prefer to stay in Carson City, Washoe Valley and Genoa, Nevada. I have no inclination to go beyond these borders. My friends jet off to Egypt and send me pictures with them on camels. My daughter’s family goes over to one of the Hawaiian islands. I don’t care which one. I don’t even wish to go to Green Bay to watch my beloved Packers play at Lambeau Field.
For 40 years, I traveled on business to all 50 states, including most major cities, and eagerly sucked in all the sights. I have millions of points for most airlines, as well as Hilton and American Express. I quit keeping track of them. They call to invite me on exotic adventures. I hang up on them.
Now my free time is consumed on my property, chasing my four dogs. I go to the farmers market in Carson City and buy a tomato. I slowly stroll through the historic town of Genoa and sneak up the mountain paths leading to Lake Tahoe. I turn around at the first mile post. I buy chocolate ice cream cones at the local malt shop. They melt on my hands before the top scoop is consumed. I don’t mind. I lick my fingers.
I think this shift is about getting older and slower. It takes me longer to tie my shoes. And then I don’t go anyplace.
Should I be worried?