“See? It’s not so bad. Look out, not down.” My boyfriend envelops me in his arms as I venture unboldly towards the edge. Each tiny movement feels like waking from a falling dream.
I pretend my eyeballs and my brain are two separate entities and I allow my eyes to feel inspired by the beauty while my brain shuts down all functions unnecessary to sheer survival. It occurs to me that if was going to be hovering above ground in an oversized birthday decoration anywhere in the world, this is the place. I glance out as our twin skirts up over a hilltop and I raise my camera gingerly to click off a few shots.
Lulled into a false sense of security, the butane ignites and flames scream out once more. I jump forward. I jump back. Why am I jumping? My feet dance like a drunkard’s marionette. Oh, dear god, the wicker has been compromised! I take one last fleeting look around at the strangers and my boyfriend and I make the decision.
I’m sorry, but it would be a Herculean feat not to soil myself right now, and I am a mere mortal. It all makes such rational sense at this moment. I’m going to shit my pants. I’ve made peace with it. And once I make that peace, an unexpected thing happens. My body stops fighting me. I actually relax. Given permission to do the unthinkable, my mind casually wanders off to other thoughts. Thoughts like, “Hmm, could we be landing already? I was just beginning to enjoy myself.”
