I am a closet daredevil. What does that mean? It means I would love to climb Mt. Everest, hang glide across the Grand Canyon, fly a motorcycle across 15 cars, surf a massive wave, jump out of an airplane…well, you get the idea. Will I do any of those things? Never. Why? Because while I am a closet daredevil, I am an openly proud scaredy cat, and scaredy cats do none of those things .
Last year, I looked at motorcycles. To be honest, I looked at the motorcycles with three wheels. I figured it took little balance ability to steer one of those babies, and I thought it might be fun to cruise the open road on a “hog”. As it turns out, one still needs to master the tricycle motorcycle much like one masters the “regular” motorcycle. I thought about a scooter, but do you know the dealers who sell scooters recommend one takes riding lessons for them as they can be tricky to balance as well. I have trouble doing the “tree” in yoga, and I figure if I can’t balance on one foot, two wheels is way out of my league. So, if a three-wheeled motorcycle and a scooter pose a potential safety hazard for me, what exactly am I left with? A Hoveround? I would rather shoot myself.
I did parasail in Mexico once, and that was daredevily. I was barely 22 and not aware of my mortality yet. Had I truly thought about what lay in the Pacific when the boat guy dunked me, I probably would have chickened out. Between sharks and Mexican drug cartel boats, I am lucky I made it back from that adventure alive.
I guess the closest daredevil dream I accomplished was surfing. I actually never surfed, but I did ride the waves a lot. I would take rafts far out in the ocean and wait for the big ones to take me into shore. My sister and I would shout, “Danger is our middle name.” We had not a care as the waves pummeled us to the beach. Around age 30, our middle name changed from “Danger” to “Be Careful” and a few years after that it became, “Something bit my feet; let’s just dunk to get good blonde highlights and get out!”
I will state for the record that I have never had the desire to jump out of a plane with a parachute. I guess if forced, I would take the parachute rather than go with no parachute, but I would prefer to stay in my seat and watch a movie. Truth be told, it’s not the landing that upsets me about jumping out of a plane, it’s the hassle of how am I going to connect with my luggage once I am on the ground. Are the baggage handlers going to find me in the middle of a cornfield somewhere and say, “Here is your bag! Thanks for flying our airline.” They couldn’t even find me on a short trip from Philly to Pittsburgh.
Next year, I plan on doing something out of the ordinary for me. I’m not sure what it’s going to be yet, but I am weighing my options. One of my high school friends just got her pilot’s license. I could go up in her plane. Nah, I’ve seen her drive. I can’t imagine her flying is any better. I could go ride the rollercoaster on top of that casino in Vegas, but projectile vomit on me is never becoming. I could get a tattoo. That might work. I could get it somewhere discreet, but that means some stranger has to see that discreet part of my body. I don’t know. It will take a lot of thinking on my part, and maybe when I am done thinking, the desire to do anything adventurous will have faded away and my hum drum life will be quite appealing. Now, that sounds like a good plan.