Sometimes when you get an impulse, you’ve just got to go with it.

Words of wisdom or an invitation to disaster? Pull up a chair, fall down on the sofa or sink into your beanbag bed and we’ll chat about this.

Just for the time being, let’s say you’re like me. I know that thought may scare the pants off most of you, so tighten your belts and read on.

Let’s say you’re 20 years old and can’t decide if you’re halfway to 40 or still within a decade of 10. You’re trying to figure out if that’s really a bald spot forming on the crown of your head, hoping it’s just a bad haircut.

Perhaps you bang your knee and it still hurts when you wake up the next day. Or maybe you find yourself telling stories about high school and feeling like you graduated when Ike was in office.

O.K. So you can’t be a spry young buck—or doe—forever, right? We all know that. That’s why we all begin to act like kids about 12 years after the last time we get smacked for driving a softball through a window.

It’s about this time when you begin acting on impulse. When you were a kid, you ran outside on summer evenings and played in traffic without thinking. Now, with too many years of seeing mushed animals on the roadside, you begin thinking about what you’re doing. I believe our grandmothers called it “safe and sane.”

That’s when you discover what an impulse is. You’re a responsible college student, and you’ve got it all figured out. Then one day, while studying according to plan, you feel it. No, no, not something with many legs dancing on your neck.

It’s an impulse to do something you hadn’t planned on doing. In movies, moments like this are usually accompanied by dramatic symphony music.

I think I’ll spin a yarn or two about impulses and how they’ve screwed up my life. You may notice that I’ll end up blaming someone else for my misfortunes.

When I was 14, I went away to summer camp for two weeks of living hell. One day, the Sloor (a friend of mine) and I were hiking around, throwing rocks at newborn animals, when we came upon a river. Actually, it was more of a creek, but in my memory it’s a raging torrent of water.

Wouldn’t you know it, a tree had fallen across the boiling rapids, just like in those Tom Sawyer movies. The question was asked, “Should we cross it?” The Sloor looked philosophical as he said, “You only live once.”

The Sloor also looked foolish as he fell into the white-water rampage, his Fayva Olympians kicking wildly as he was sucked under. I thought twice—the first time in my wild young life I had ever done that—then jumped up on the tree and crossed safely.

The Sloor’s body washed up in the Gulf weeks later. In his memory, I decided to never think twice about doing something stupid ever again. And if you ask my close friends, they will tell you that I do something stupid about three or four times a day.

I spent the next five years jumping off of moving cars, climbing up tall trees and playing basketball in driving rainstorms. I once played volleyball with a cast on my recently broken right hand. My spikes were awesome.

It was a time of life when most people begin to slow down and use their heads. I figured people like this would grow up to be those mean old people who yell at the neighborhood kids.

Then one fine summer evening about two years ago, I jumped up on the back of Jam Jakai’s car as he pulled away from the curb. Just one of those crazy things I would do. Then I fell off—he was doing maybe 65 or 70. I bashed both my wrists breaking my fall. Ouch.

Imagine living with two useless hands for a week. I mean, try thinking about what a chore simple tasks would become. Like going to the bathroom.

I decided to slow down. When those impulses would hit me, I would take a deep breath, count to 10 and go about my business. For example, today is a nice day, and baseball season is just around the corner. But I have work to do.

Who am I kidding? It’s Friday. Let’s go have a catch.