When my kids were little, I knew playgrounds and libraries across Ann Arbor. When they got bigger, I knew bowling alleys and Pinball Pete’s. And for a long time, those places—plus two dining spots and the band uniform closet at Pioneer High—made for most of my local wanderings. 
 
As my nest began to empty, I resolved to explore our town more thoroughly. But then I got cancer, and then I got it again, and then I got very fond of a particular chair in my living room. Even after I healed, I preferred to be in the vicinity of the chair. My inner introvert, already firmly rooted, wrapped long, boring tentacles around my home. 
 
And now I’m in a rut, I guess. A lovely, peaceful rut.
 
I hadn’t thought much about it until recently, when I met my girlfriends for coffee at Zingerman’s Roadhouse (one of my two dining spots). The girlfriends talked about the interesting stuff they’d been up to—concerts, Chinese lessons, watercolor classes. And when it was my turn to give an update, I went on for too long about the closet I’d been cleaning. 
 
This is not ideal, my inner voice whispered, as my outer voice nattered over whether to buy a paper shredder. I have got to get out more.
 
So I decided to start a getting-out blog, and I began by sitting in my chair. Computer on blanket on lap, I halfheartedly considered my options until I landed on a plan to see this summer’s blockbuster, The Odyssey. I figured that, before the show, I could drive through the new Chick-Fil-A on Washtenaw. 
 
I realized I wasn’t setting the world on fire with this plan, and that no adventuring awards would be won. But I hadn’t seen a movie in a theater since before the pandemic, and I’d never had a great chicken nugget in Ann Arbor. My primary goal was to declare, at the next girlfriend coffee, “I’ve done something other than closet.” I figured if I could accomplish that, plus the nuggets, I’d generate some wind for the sails of future forays.
 
Wondering aloud whether I could wear pjs to the theater, I bought my ticket online. On a whim that I hoped would turn out to be delightful, I upgraded my seat from “lounger” to “D-Box,” which is a synced motion experience where your chair bounces with the movie’s action. 
 
Oh-ho-ho, I thought, as I clicked a button to pay eight extra dollars for the bouncing. Perhaps adventuring awards will be won after all. 
 
And then—like a rookie, like a nitwit—I drove to one of the nation’s most popular fast food chains at the height of a weekend lunch hour. When I found it, tucked back from the main road, I was dismayed to see the parking lot was a hive of confused activity; and the reason for this, it turned out, was that there was no drive-thru. No drive-thru at all. Just a bunch of hungry motorists battling for parking spots.
 
This was bewildering. Drive-thru is kind of Chick-fil-a’s whole deal. Well, drive-thru and a history of ideological stances that I disagree with. But frankly, that’s why I thought I’d be able to breeze through this particular Chick-Fil-A. Because other, better Ann Arborites would be looking elsewhere for liberal chicken, and I would just quickly grab some nuggets and head over to my D-Box.
 
But no. The place was packed. After a near-miss that would have been my second fender bender of the year, I parked by a sign that said “Welcome Friends and Neighbors.” I checked my watch—I was cutting it close to showtime—and headed inside, internally debating ranch vs. honey mustard. 
 
Looking back now, it’s hilarious that I thought I was ever getting nuggets. The restaurant was as crowded as the parking lot, although without the element of danger or even much noise. It was a room full of people leaning against walls, quietly wanting chicken.
 
I left. I knew I could’ve cracked the system if I’d had time, and it smelled amazing in there, but I was running late. Plus, I was wearing pjs. I made it out of the parking lot alive and drove to the theater, where I was the only other person in a slow-moving concessions line behind a guy who’d never ordered snacks before. Finally, I stumbled to my seat in the dark to find that the show had already started. 
 
I’d ostensibly read The Odyssey in college, but the whole movie was an exciting surprise. The only part that wasn’t great was the kid behind me kicking my chair. I absent-mindedly forgave the first few kicks as I ate my hot dog (delicious), but by the time Odysseus set to sea, I was plotting revenge on the kid and regretting the entire outing. “This kind of thing,” I grumbled around a mouthful of Junior Mints, “is the reason I hate leaving home.” And then my seat lurched to the left. 
 
That’s when I understood that there wasn’t a kid. There was no kicking. Every bump and jostle was my D-Box seat, bouncing with the movie’s action, carrying me along on the odyssey. 
 
Contact me at [email protected] to let me know where I should go next.