Nearly.
THE bad news is that Mum and I haven’t spoken since our snarky email exchange about whether or not I have a legitimate fear of heights (if you were me, would you have blurted out that someone who has a Condition Red panic attack at the sight of a slightly enclosed space ought to be less scathing? I think you would); the good news is I’ve mastered a new twisty move on the trapeze.
After piking on the last two lessons, I turn up to today’s class with dragging feet and a face like a smacked arse.
Always keen to cash in on my own misfortune, last week I interviewed a specialist about the best and worst way to tackle phobias for a newspaper article. The worst, he said, is ‘flooding’ – essentially throwing yourself in at the deep end, like taking a trapeze course. Armed with this knowledge, I just know today’s going to be a shocker.
“Only focus on the clips,” the instructor says when I explain I’m liable to faceplant the floor if I have to look down and fit the harness. His permanently benign expression helps a bit.
Weirdly, this time around atop the platform I’m not sweaty and dizzy, and can concentrate on what I’m doing, even though there’s always a death grip involved. I pull off the usual swings and then decide to go for a new one, launching off with crossed arms, spinning around, swapping hands and trying to avoid smacking back into the platform. There’s a bit of a shriek when I let go at the wrong time and go swimming across the crash pad, but the next time I land on my feet, and the next. Wahoo!
Whatever it was I had, I’m hoping it’s peaked.
Keeper? Seeing that I was hanging onto a pole at the top of the platform at the time, I’m not sure if the instructor’s advice to wee on your hands to heal blisters was a joke or not. Better safe than sorry.
Hey man, now you're really living 
You must be logged in to post a comment.