The only thing to fear are skis, naturally
Originally written 2014
I’d like to think that I’m not a fearful person, that I’m brave and bold and up for anything. Sure there are certain things that I won’t do: like bungee jump, or go on a rollercoaster, or be sans seatbelt in a taxi in Taiwan. It’s not that I’m a wuss, but more that I prefer my adrenaline to be in a calm and relaxed state at all times. I’ve tried to be one of those junkies who thrives on perilous situation (oh you mean there’s a distinct possibility I might die, or break my bones, from this situation? Oh ho! What fun! Sign me up). I just never tried very hard.
Take skiing for example. Being half Swiss you would think that I would have some kind of super alpine DNA that meant the skis and I would become one, merge and together glide gracefully down mountaintops, yodeling all the way. Not quite. Last year I was in Switzerland for a family reunion and we spent a day skiing in Grindelwald. Well skiing is what my father and stepbrother did. While my sister and stepmother cleverly decided to forego the skiing I threw myself into it wholeheartedly. Or rather, I threw myself to the ground. Again and again. Not trusting the traditional technique of bringing ones skis together, I decided the best way to stop myself going faster than five kilometers an hour and plunging over a cliff was to fall sideways and collapse in a pathetic heap as five year wunderkinds flew past me.
So mountains in winter, not so much fun for me. And theme parks and me don’t seem to mix either. I went to my first theme park at eight and while I braved the rollercoaster, one minute into the pirate ship ride I decided that a life on the high seas was not for me, raised my hand and forced the operator to stop so I could get off and do the amusement park walk of shame. I spent almost $80 in University so I could watch my friends be dropped from 90 feet, dangle from a Lethal Weapon rollercoaster and go from 0 to 160km/h in seven seconds. I rode the Rugrats rollercoaster and squealed as it made a leisurely dip. Its not that I am afraid the wheels will fall off, or my safety belt will snap or that an inattentive Carney will push the wrong button. I just don’t like the feeling of my stomach being forced into brain as my spinal cord is yanked toward my feet and my lungs purged of all oxygen. It’s just not natural. I don’t scream on these rides, I groan, like an old man expelling his last breath after a giant tractor has crushed his trachea Uhhhhhhh.
Yet these are activities I can avoid. I don’t have to go gallivanting up mountainsides in expensive fleeced clothes that cause me to waddle rather than walk. I can pass up the oh so exciting opportunity of being herded into a caged ride like a lamb to the slaughter. Flying, however, is something that I have to contend with, even though I don’t like it very much. Travel I must, and therefore fly I must.
It’s not a logical fear. In my rational mind I know it’s infinitely more dangerous for me to walk to the 7/11 on the corner of my street than it is for me to fly 12 hours economy. A donkey has more lethal potential in those hooves than an airplane does. That doesn’t matter. I’m not in the habit of spending time with asses and, living in Taiwan, well breathing can be deadly. I’d have to become a hermit if I thought about all the possible things that could hurt me outside my door.
As soon as the plane starts taxiing down the runway my heart decides that its not audible enough and needs to be heard all the way up in first class. After the wheels leave the ground, every shake, every rattle, every tiny dip of the plane leaves me convinced we are plummeting to our death. I hate taking off. Once in the air I can forget that I am 10, 000 metres above the earth in a metal box and lose myself in in-flight entertainment. That is unless we hit turbulence.
The fasten seatbelt symbol beginning to glow may as well be a signal for me to prepare to plummet. As the captain comes on over the loud speaker I expect him to tell me to say goodbye to my loved one sitting next to me (generally oblivious, sleeping like a baby or laughing at my terror eyes). Worst-case scenario I’ll be going home to my parents in pieces (or flakes of ash), best cast scenario I’ll find myself in some kind of Lost island situation. And I wouldn’t be like the Kate from the T.V series, all lean and alluring and good with guns. I’d be more like Hurley, hungry, with sweaty breasts.
But maybe I should stop being afraid of all these things. Tackle them head on in some kind of über fear factor challenge where I jump out of a plane onto a mountain side, ski to the bottom and land in a pirate ship ride. Or maybe I’ll just continue to avoid slick surfaces, ride the spinning teacups and suppress a sob every time the plane wobbles. Makes me appreciate landing that much more.
