So yeah, I went rock climbing.
(when I told my stepfather I planned on doing this, his response was “Are you in shape for that?” Granted, this is the first time in the 25-odd years he’s known me that he’s heard me express any interest in participating in anything more athletically taxing than fishing. And he also hasn’t seen me since 2007 when I weighed about 40 pounds more than I do now. Still, he just saw a recent picture of me [that I took of myself to email my mom with the subject line, "oh yeah, this is what I look like now"] so he knows I’m at least in better shape than I was two years ago. C’mon stepdad, I didn’t drop 3 sizes by sitting on my [now much smaller and in better shape] ass.)
About a month before my trip to San Francisco, Lala emailed me with “just a thought”:
There’s a free climbing gym pass with your name on it if you want it when you visit. (Also, if it makes you feel better, there’s a $27 intro that gives you a day pass, basic belaying <that’s the part where you don’t drop and kill the other person> and a harness and shoes.)
My immediate response was “oh dear god no.”
I am, at least I thought I was, deathly afraid of heights.
An exaggeration, really. Not DEATHLY. It’s not like I reach the top of the Empire State Building and go out to the observation deck and faint or panic or hyperventilate or not even make it to the observation deck because I’m paralyzed with fear, or, you know, not even make it on to the elevator. I don’t freak out on airplanes (except when taking off and during any sort of major turbulence and then it’s really more a mild, white-knuckled private-prayer sort of freak-out). But I will go up to the observation deck of the ESB — hell, it just needs to be a three-story building — and look down and feel a little wobbly. My legs shake when going up ladders (except, oddly, when I was painting my bedroom and had to use a ladder to tape up by the ceiling. I was totally fine then. And it was a shaky ladder. I wasn’t that high up, though. Just a couple steps).
So, OK, I am slightly-more-than-mildly afraid of heights. It’s all about how secure I feel, I suppose, and how much control I have over what I do at the top of wherever I am. Roller coasters? Forget it — momentum pulling me down, FAST, is completely out of my control. By the way, have I mentioned my propensity to overanalyze stuff? Just dig deeper and deeper until I hit nothing at all? Like I really need to investigate my so-called fear of heights and find out what that’s all about. Whatever. I’ll get back to the story now.
My next thought kinda surprised me. I thought, if something like rock climbing — which I knew deep down was rather low on the scale of thrill-seeking activities — not like bungee jumping or sky diving — provokes this kind of reaction, then maybe I should do it. So I replied: “Rock climbing scares me to death, which probably means I should do it. I’m in that kind of mood right now.”
And then for weeks, I was psyched. I told everyone, “I’m going rock climbing!” and watched as eyebrows raised and “REALLY” appeared on the GChat. It’s a very un-Michelle sort of thing to do, and I enjoyed that. [tangent: I'm at the pub right now and "Tangled Up In Blue" just came on. I am by myself, and I am singing along. I guess I do that now, too.] And in my head I was going to be a natural. (This is also very important to me. I need to succeed at everything right away, or forget it.) I was going to scurry up that wall like a monkey. And then drink a beer when I got there.
…Stay tuned for “Part II: The Reality“
No related posts.