I have an endless parade of meaningless clichés rampaging through my head on an almost constant basis.
“When in Rome!” “It is not the years in your life but the life in your years!” “Seize the day!” “You don’t like excitement do you?” (okay, that last one was just an observation from an insensitive acquaintance. dick.)
My life is a tauntingly large imaginary paper scroll that unrolls to reveal all the STUFF that I NEED TO ACCOMPLISH.
including, but not limited to:
marriage (don’t ask me about planning)–check me.
dog (ask me about planning!)–check me
baby (preferably more than one, preferably one of each gender so I can EXPERIENCE both, thanks)–check me
home (preferably cute, filled with cute things, at a cute price)–check me
travel (I will soon be half-kiwi, right?)–check me
write something (that doesn’t involve church ladies or precocious kiddos)–check me
have an interesting life to tell to both gendered children and piles of grandchildren–check me
(I’m not the only one who feels this way, right? HYPERVENTILATES.)
My overwhelming NEED to EXPERIENCE STUFF leads me to do some
unwise memorable things on occassion.
*Drinking ouzo in a Turkish carpet factory? SURE!
Apparently I didn’t learn from drinking lemoncello when in Rome (see what I did there?) during an ill-advised pub crawl. oof.
*Driving in a blizzard for free Grand Slam Day at Denny’s? OF COURSE. IT’S FREE.
*Dating someone who broke up with me because he thought he wanted to become a woman? I WISH I WAS KIDDING.
So when my boss told me I was being tossed into a Black Hawk helicopter because it may be relevant to work, kind of, and could, maybe, sort of become a story, I did what anyone who is scared of elevators, bridges, parking garages, deviations from pavement or sidewalk (eg: manhole covers, grates, etc.), amusement park rides and bats would do.
“SOUNDS LIKE A PLAN!”
Last Wednesday, I got into the damned helicopter.
Apparently my delight/terror was written all over my face as several geriatric individuals came over to insure me this aircraft was completely safe and had transported soldiers all over creation to drop bombs on innocents (GUH?!?) and was not, in fact, my deathbed.
“This one’s scared! HAHAHAHA,” was the theme of the conversation, boomed out around the hangar. No one talked to/mocked the lady who didn’t even get into the damn overgrown spinning top. NO ONE.
The flight wasn’t bad. I could even relax (a little, as I had winched that five point harness so tight I could barely think).
Don’t even say I told you so.
But most importantly …
now I can check it off the list!