My boss' family went scuba diving alongSIDE sharks. A coworker did something insane called "ziplining" which, apparently, consists of climbing a tall tower and attaching one's self to a wire and, I guess, "zipping" down that wire (no doubt across a black, bottomless pit filled with alligators and poisonous snakes).

Excuse me? Whatever happened to hiking? Whatever happened to fishing? To swimming in a neighborhood pool?

I don't do dangerous. I check the air in my tires before I drive around the block. I do the speed limit. I clip my ear hair before it gets too long and, for crying out loud, my feet always stay firmly affixed to Mother Earth. Never would I attach myself to a wire and go cavorting across a bottomless pit filled with lions and tiger and bears.

Call me boring. Call me old. Call me conservative. No wait, don't call me conservative. Old and boring, fine. Conservative ... uh, no.

Twelve years ago, Mrs. P and I gave birth to a child who has blossomed into what I can best describe as an alien life form from another planet far, far away. The more risks she can take, the better her life. We went to Six Flags, the great Money Sucking Amusement Park of the Free World -- the only place you can spend $3.50 on a bag of popcorn that was cooked six months ago and stored in a musty popcorn warehouse until ready for consumption by the first old-fashioned parent of an alien life form that comes down the turnpike.

Our 12-year-old Eve Knievel was among of the first to ride the new Six Flags roller coaster called "The Titan." The other 50 thousand or so were mostly much older than she, but for some reason all of them possess defective DNA that makes them want to FEEL LIKE THEY ARE ABOUT TO DIE. The Titan climbs over 2,400 feet into the air and is clearly visible when sitting at the top of the nearby Ballpark in Arlington. Let me repeat: The coaster rises ABOVE the Ballpark.

When she was finished with Titan, she headed to the bone-jarring Texas Giant which is akin to taking a cab through Juarez, only there aren't as many people on the Texas Giant and the coaster actually STOPS when it's supposed to.

I sat nearby as my middle daughter and her older sister (who was no doubt weeping at the thought of getting on the Titan) stood in line for the Titan. All the while, wondering if I had done the wrong thing by allowing them to participate in such death-defying, stupid human stunts. If you've never seen our middle daughter, let me explain her to you: toothpick. I was afraid she would be sucked out of the roller coaster as it began its first downward plunge and blow away forever.

After we were done at Six Flags, we headed to a nearby lake. For those of you NOT from Texas, please DO NOT laugh: The name of the lake is Possum Kingdom. I know, I know: you must be wondering why possums have their own kingdom while other common rodents found in the middle of Texas highways die without ever having received ANY formal recognition at all, much less an entire kingdom paying tribute to their nasty species. We Texans do crazy things sometimes.

Contrary to what you are hopefully thinking, Possum Kingdom -- now referred to as "PK" by people wishing to avoid snickers and other forms of embarrassing looks -- is actually a well groomed lake that is not brown and doesn't stink.

Anyway, we crowded onto a boat one day this summer and began our tour across PK. Once in the middle of the lake, our Little Eve (not her real name) jumped into the warm, murky (yet beautiful) waters of PK, hooked herself up to a rubber inner-tube and let a family friend drag her around in circles for what seemed like an eternity to dear ol' Dad. When she was finally done with her ride, she told us all that at one point she had actually thought about letting go and falling into the lake because she was "getting bored just going around in circles." I guess I should be beaming with pride right about now, but I can't help think that in four short years, Our Little Eve will sit down behind a wheel and put her foot on a small pedal that will propel a 1,000 pound vehicle in the general direction of other 1,000-pound vehicles.

In order to understand the sheer lunacy of our daughter's behavior, we must compare her with her brother and sister. Her 15-year-old big sis, actually CRIED while she stood in line for The Mine Train, a 35-year-old roller coaster at Six Flags that tops out at 45 mph. Her brother, The Boy, told me he has a list of roller coaster criteria. If these coasters don't meet his qualifications, they don't get his nervous little backside in one of their seats.

"If I'm gonna ride a roller coaster, it can't be wooden, it can't have loops, it can't have a chain-lift and it can't rise above the treetops," The Boy said. Which pretty much limits him to car rides with mom.

While we were cavorting about the Great Money Sucking Amusement Park of the Freeworld, there was another vacationer enjoying her own paradise. A former co-worker of mine spent her entire vacation at a Benedictine monastery in Northwestern New Mexico.

"We were up every morning at 3:30," she said. "We ate vegetables all week, chanted the liturgy seven times a day and pretty much enjoyed total seclusion and quiet for five days."

"Wow, 3:30?" I said. "That's when 'The Jeffersons' comes on TV Land. But I guess you didn't get to watch George and Weezie at the monastery, huh?"

"No cable at the monastery," she said.

"And it was quiet ALL week?"

"Seven days of golden, blissful nothingness."

"Did you have a cell phone?"

"No cell phone."

"Palm pilot?"

"Nope."

"Any kids there?"

"No kids."

I drooled on my keyboard as she told me her story.

"No kids? No cell phone? No TV? No Internet? No email? They actually still have places like that in America?"

I couldn't help think about the different vacations we all enjoyed. My boss swimming with sharks in the Bahamas. The Patterson family doing a mid-management version of swimming with the sharks as the kids waded in Possum Kingdom while dad stood by and worried that a water moccasin would make his way into our little playground. And then there was my friend enjoying the silence and seclusion of a monastery.

She continued to tell me about her week of silence and seclusion. I felt a tear crowd the rim of my eye.

"At this monastery you went to," I said to my friend, "do you remember if they had any openings for religious types?"

"You're not cut out for that kinda life."

"I'm not talking about me! But I've got a 12-year-old daughter who could stand to take it down a couple of notches."

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