My A license stamp! Ordinarily it would be on my forehead, but I lucked out.
After two long years (with a 10 month hiatus in between), Bear and I have received our A licenses at last. It’s been a long journey, but completely and utterly worth it.
Skydivers are a curious breed. To call us adrenaline junkies would be over-simplification; of course, we are adrenaline junkies. Not many people would willingly throw themselves out of a plane two and a half miles above the earth. Over and over again. But the thrill of falling through the skies, of possibly getting one step closer to death—that fades within two or three jumps. Jumping is only really and truly scary the first time.
Thanks to everyone who recommended books to me. I have not yet taken up everyone on their recommendations (I am totally running out and getting Catherynne Valente’s PALIMPSEST when I get the chance), although I did spend part of my birthday giftcard on two books to read on my road trip down to North Carolina. (Amazingly, I did not get carsick.)
North Carolina was the furthest south I had ever been in the United States (excluding Disneyworld, Florida, which in all honesty, is not part of The South) and boy was it enlightening. Bear and I took the I-95 from New Brunswick, New Jersey, all the way down through Philadelphia (which has the highest number of billboards on the highway), Wilmington, Baltimore, Washington D.C. (where we took an accidental detour through the Capitol that delayed us for an hour and a half), and the entire state of Virginia, which seems to be the longest state ever.
Indoor skydiving can really take it out of a girl. Especially if she’s developed a previously unknown shoulder problem that has a propensity to dislocate in the middle of a skydive. I mean, what the fuck? This has happened to me twice now and it’s never happened before. I’ve never injured my shoulder in any capacity (I can’t say that about my knee…or my back…or my pelvic bone…) and all of a sudden it decides that it can’t take the pressure anymore and loses it. Body, you are on notice. Time to haul you to the gym for some strength training.
I have been remiss in blogging, mostly because in the past week I’ve driven a total of 18 hours down to North Carolina and back and spent 15 minutes in a wind tunnel using all of the small muscles in my body. It’s easy falling out of a plane. The hard part is maintaining absolute control of how you fly.
Fortunately, this time I have obtained some video of my airtime that I will foist upon the unsuspecting public. Luckily for you, I won’t put up the entire 15 minutes. I edited together a “greatest hits” compilation, if you will.
Has it really been a week since I’ve updated last? Yikes.
As seems to be the tradition since I’ve reached “adulthood,” my natality seems to be a week-long celebration. Wednesday night I went over to Sofa’s apartment for an evening of Bones and wine coolers as we are wont to do, except she surprised me by taking me up to the roof of her apartment and wishing me a happy birthday as it turned midnight. We then proceeded to watch Bones until we passed out around 5:30am. She went to work, I stayed in her apartment and watched more Bones until I had to meet up with my friend Jess for lunch.
Russ joined us for Indian food at Tiffin Wallah on 29th and Lexington and then we enjoyed an absolutely gorgeous day walking around New York City. In the evening, hoards of people appeared at my door to go to the Astoria Beer Garden, where we had pitchers of a girly cocktail and the non-vegetarians indulged in some bratwurst. In my life I have been extraordinarily blessed with friends and I am grateful for each and every one of them.
I had completely forgotten how mentally taxing skydiving can be. And I’m not talking about the possibilities of malfunctions or problems on a jump (which should be percolating at the back of the mind, of course), but just what concentration it takes. What focus. The complete and utter awareness of the body and how it feels, as well as how your body feels in relation to the fluid aerodynamics occurring around you.
The only comparison I can really make is yoga, which seems to be the antithesis of skydiving as a sport, yeah? But as someone who does both, there really is a clear connection. The only difference is, I suppose, that you are hurtling through the air at speeds in excess of 120mph (or more, depending on how big you are).
Bear and I gave Saturday, the Fourth of July, a skip at the DZ as his friend Splash claimed to be hosting a Whiffleball with PBR (gross) challenge. It never happened, so Bear and I spent the day watching The Twilight Zone marathon on SciFi SyFy. A good thing too, I suppose, as the DZ never got below a 200+ minimum jump restriction.
Uncreated Conscience is JJ's blog, in which she rambles about the toils and tribulations of writing her first novel, why CSS eats her brain, or how skydiving takes all of her money.
And when she's done with that, she's reviewing books and looking for fiction to publish for postadolescent "new adults".
Moot Point
Sometimes Family Guy Gets It Right
Peter: Well, I'm gettin' something really special too. And by special I don't mean special like that Kleinaman boy down the street. More special like... like Special K, the cereal. Hey, what do they do with the regular K? And for that matter, what ever happend to K. Ballard? You know, if you said mallard and you had a cold, it would sound like ballard.
Brian: Do you ever listen to yourself talk?
Peter: I drift in and out.
