“Enjoy the fantastic view with your feet dangling over 4,000 ft. in the air!” persuades Connecticut Parachutes, Inc. on their website, skydivect.com.
Let me put it to you like this. If someone forced me into a plane at gunpoint, kicked open the door, held the gun to my temple and said, “Refuse to jump, and I pull the trigger. Jump, your trusty parachute will instantly pop open, and you will flutter peacefully to safety, where Ed McMahon will catch you in a trampoline padded with million dollar bills,” I still don’t think I would be able to grow the required set of balls to take the plunge.
(Then again, if one were to see Ed McMahon after skydiving, this would probably not be a good sign.)
I often wonder how many cumulative hours each year people in amusement parks across the country willingly wait in line, fork over their money, and board rides that rocket them hundreds of feet into the air, spin them around or zoom them along rickety tracks looping four hundred feet above the ground, while I’m still mustering the courage to climb aboard the Teacups. Note to my adventurous, thrill-seeking friends: I just don’t understand you.
As a kid, I couldn’t climb a tree, because the panic attacks would set in before the first branch. While ascending escalators, I have to remind myself not to look down. Standing on the second floor of a building, even if I am protected by a six-inch-thick wall of glass, I am dizzily searching for a place to vomit. To me, there is nothing on this planet—and I mean nothing—more terrifying than heights.
If I should die from falling off a bridge, and my death is ruled a suicide, INVESTIGATE. Someone pushed me.
As for you, Carrie, you have been spending nearly thirty years trying to edge me out of my comfort zone. Message received.
Next weekend, I’m following suit by taking Anna out during her scheduled naptime. Now who’s the badass?