(OR: It's All Fun and Games Until Someone Gets Bashed in the Eye)
I used to be fearless.
Sometime in the last few years, however, I realized this wasn’t the case
anymore. Perhaps fear set in because of garnered
experience or from knowing too much about the dangers of this world—or because
I have my own child and therefore must think about my mortality as it would
affect her. Whatever the reason, I think
this fearlessness is what I miss most about my childhood.
In 2010, I went to France with my now ex-husband. We were on a tour of a quaint little church/clock
tower in Northern France. Part of the
tour included a walk around the outside of the steeple, allowing a 360-degree
view of the city below. Normally, this
wouldn’t have bothered me, but as we made our way around the very narrow walkway,
separated from certain death by only a chest high glass partition (I’m 5’2”),
the wind whipping violently past, I discovered my very real fear of
heights. I shamefully admit that I freaked
out. Clutching the side of the building
in terror, I scuttled sideways like a crab, my heart thudding and my breathing
shallow, barely making it back inside to safety. I couldn’t even fully enjoy the glorious
view.
I honestly don’t know where this fear of heights came
from. I’d been dealing with some bouts
of vertigo (perhaps brought on by and preventing further skating of roller
derby), but had never quite experienced the panic I’d had that afternoon.
I have since challenged this fear of heights multiple times
in the last few years: exploring the rain-soaked
Cliffs of Moher, kissing the Blarney Stone (which one must hang both backward
and upside down to reach), zip-lining, a trapeze lesson…
Each time, I experienced heart-pounding terror, self-doubt
and a tarnished self-image. In most
cases, however, I managed to escape without physical injury.
Until an obstacle course at a trampoline park recently got
the better of me.
Let me set the scene:
I was at my daughter’s twelfth birthday party. Already awkward because I do not particularly
care to be in the same room as the ex-husband, I am also not overly fond of
bounce houses or trampolines (due to an ill-fated special event in which I got
trapped in one while dressed as a chipmunk…but that’s a story for another time).
In an effort to join in on the
festivities, I decided I would attempt the obstacle course. Because it was positioned along the ceiling, all
the obstacles were to be completed over an open net (under which the other
patrons and the employees could walk).
I will spare you most of the details, but suffice it to say,
I only made it a quarter of the way through.
After climbing between platforms almost too far apart for my stubby
legs, balancing on a tightrope and moving across a staggered, moving balance
beam, I was faced with four Wooden Swings of Doom. Made up of large square posts (8” x 8” and
about 5’ long I think?) fastened to the ceiling with large eye screws, the
swings had wooden pegs as footholds. The
goal was to clutch onto the post (think monkey style) and swing to the next,
using the footholds for balance. Already
panicked from the height, I could not figure out how to get past this part of
the course. I watched as countless kids
(including my daughter) did it, but I just couldn’t get my body to do what it
needed to do. Finally, I pulled the post
toward me and grabbed on. As I was
reaching for the second post, however, I fell into the net below—at which point
the post swung back and bashed me in the face, right above my brow.
I could feel the goose egg forming immediately. Lying face down in the net, sobbing, I saw my
daughter walking under me. I called out to
her, telling her that I had fallen and that I needed some ice. She (in her typical 12-year-old way) argued
with me about where to get the ice. I told
her, “I don’t care where you get it.
Just get me some ice.”
I then had to figure out how to get out of the obstacle
course. Because it was suspended from
the ceiling, there was no way out except to complete the course or to go
back. There was no way in hell I was
completing it. With my eyebrow swollen and
tears streaming down my face, I had to go back to the beginning, still
terrified and now injured. I made it to
the start (joking with the people I passed, “Watch out for the swings. They’re doozies!”), where my daughter was waiting
with the ice.
I spent the rest of the birthday party sitting at the table
with an ice pack on my head. My eye didn’t
start to blacken until later that night.
I hadn’t had a black eye since I was six years old (obtained from an
equally clumsy incident with playground equipment), not even while playing
roller derby.
Sadly, my lack of physical prowess and ability to
participate in birthday parties are not the only indications that I am no
longer fearless. As I sat bemoaning my
idiocy, I started thinking about how fear has affected me. Often plagued with indecision, it is much
harder for me to jump into anything without worrying it to death. I sometimes find
it difficult to plan, because my brain immediately goes to several contingency plans—even
though they rarely work out. I am frequently
exhausted before I even begin anything.
Although I try to trust that everything will be as it is “should”, I
also know that my failures, emotional and otherwise, are often more difficult
to handle. It takes me longer to
heal. I am not as resilient.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t keep trying. I am nothing, if not stubborn. Although I doubt I’ll be back on that
obstacle course any time soon. I’ve
already told my daughter her next birthday party is going to be a tea
party. Unless I suddenly develop an
aversion to cucumber sandwiches and teacups, that is. Ha ha.
Until next time, my Lovelies….
