When I was 25, I bought a used motorcycle. I didn’t know how to ride it, per se, but ride — and crash — I did, anyways. My friends all made fun of me: “Oh, look, there goes Jeff on his quarter-life-crisis mobile,” “what a dumb bike,” yada yada yada.
And it was dumb, I admit it. I stopped riding once I realized it actually scared the shit out of me, and the motorcycle sat on the side of my house collecting rust for years before I finally “sold” it to Kars4Kids.
Long story short, my quarter-life crisis was a disaster. But as it turns out, not all midlife (and quarter-life) crises have to be.
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