Why do I only let myself have adventure two weeks a year?

I had one fine turban, kept in a chest, wrapped in cloth. I wore it only at the Feast. Every other day of the year I wore the old grey one, the one with the hole. One year the Feast was cancelled — a death in the village, everyone in mourning. My fine turban stayed in the chest. When I finally opened it, in spring, the moths had eaten it to lace. My neighbor asked, 'Why didn't you just wear it on an ordinary Tuesday?' I had no answer. I had been saving it for a day that belonged to someone else's calendar, not mine. This is what you have done with adventure. You filed it under 'vacation,' stamped it, and locked the other fifty weeks in a drawer. Somewhere you decided the unexpected needs a permit — a ticket, a holiday, official leave from your own life. So on ordinary Tuesdays, you eat the same lunch. You take the same road. You ask no new questions. Adventure stays in the chest, saved for the Feast. But nobody is guarding that drawer except you. The moths are already working.