Recently, I realized I have a serious problem. Well a serious, new problem, at any rate. That time when I left your party naked and woke up in Rancho Cucamonga - pshaw, that was nothing. Nor the uphill battle with cancer sticks, which I am glad to say I quit. Every day (between cigarettes).
No, the problem is my tendency to be suicidal. I recently went to New Zealand on a totally pointless trip, a.k.a "vacation". I landed in Auckland and knew from my trusted travel guide that the city was famous for its Skyjump. I told myself I am middle-aged now, and would opt for adventures in viticulture, mostly, with some microbreweries for variety. (As opposed to jumping off a cliff on a hang-glider in Rio in 2004 strapped to an annoying man called "Mosquito").
Instead, minutes after booking myself into my place of accommodation, I found myself moving in a spiral (if you know about centrifugal forces, you'd understand).
After pretending I would only "enquire" about the jump and a cup of coffee, I promptly signed up. However, I did skip lunch for obvious reasons, proving just how astute I am. God only knows how lethal projective vomit can be from 60 floors above ground, and I intended to keep it that way.
A little later, I was clothed in the yellow-and-blue jumpsuit (man, for once the name made sense), a large diaper-like thing ("harness") that had a hook at the back and a minute later, was standing on a deck sticking out at 192m (roughly 600 feet) from the Sky Tower. Walking to the edge, all the wine in New Zealand would not have sufficed for my dry mouth.
The trick, as with lamb-slaughtering I am sure, is to be quick. After instructions, as I was waiting for the "1....2....3....jump" command, the wonderful supervisor went "123jump", giving me no time to think. And as the ground rushed up, it suddenly stopped. No, I did not become Keanu Reeves (the horror!) and toy with the laws of physics. After a few metres, they stop and expect you to twist around so the supervisor can take a picture of you from the platform above. I am proud to report a (wrought) smile and no wet patches anywhere on the suit.
Then in 10 seconds, it was over and I was nursing my sore ankles from a hard landing. Will I learn yet? Will I settle for activities appropriate for my age such as perusing Blackberries, hunting for the cheapest generic antacids and becoming an expert on male pattern baldness? Time will tell.
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