A week from today I’m going skydiving. This is probably a horrific idea, considering:

A. I’m scared out of my skin.

B. I’m scared out of my skin.

C. I’m scared out of my skin.

So why do such a foolish thing? Well, oddly, my fear is my reason. As I’ve noted myriad times, I am a hypochondriac. I fear death in a most unhealthy way. It’s an obsession, which—logically speaking—is foolish, because when you’re dead you’re dead, and there ain’t much to really worry about.

Hence, I’ve decided to confront that fear head-on; to put myself in the most scary, uncomfortable position I can think of and see what happens. In other words, I’ll be plunging 14,000 feet.

I’ve broken down the odds of what might transpire:

10%—leap from the plane and feel liberated and free.

70%—leap from the plane crying like a baby, curled up like a ball, eyes shut, palms glistening in sweat.

15%—pass out 10 seconds into my jump and wake up later in the hospital with two broken legs.


I’m scared. Really scared. But I’m also excited. Truth is, the fear should be controllable. I love roller coasters and high speeds, and my fear of heights is minimal. I don’t love the lack of control that surely comes with plunging from an airplane, but, well, such is the price one pays. Inside, I think I’m hoping for a revelation; a life lesson on confronting one’s weaknesses. But that seems a bit too much like a season finale of Who’s The Boss?* So I’ll just settle for a killer rush …

*Speaking of Who’s The Boss?, I’d like to again note that Alyssa Milano’s baseball book is kicking my ass on Amazon. But I never appeared in Hugo Pool. So we’re even.