This is merely an anecdote and one of those "day in the life" moments that you could ponder what the impact might be.
Your brother and I went cliff jumping with a couple of other friends and a pack of 18-19 year olds. I say they were 18-19 because they all had tattoos, so I'm giving them a few more years than what otherwise would have been my guess. There was another kid there who claimed to have been there the previous day and claimed that he would be sitting on the rock all week, apparently talking strangers into jumping off the rock. We'll call him "George" because "fat-faux-bad-ass" just seems so unfair.
There were two levels of cliff jumping. One was fifteen or so feet above some very cold water. The being psyched up to jump was the worst part, followed by the cold water. It wasn't the fall.
My dear friend Brenda went up to the 25 foot one, which was less than what she (and we) have done before, sans the lower levels jetting out a bit from the rocks below. She jumped, twice. In the background was a very annoying George who promised that a) a twelve year old had done it yesterday b) a forty year old had done it yesterday and c) they would all jump if someone else went first. None of which did Brenda believe.
In any case no one else jumped but Brenda returned to "man, you have bigger balls than I do." Repeatedly, as though balls either mean a) stupidity or b) courage. I hate that phrase, along with "that will put some hair on your chest." I don't want hair on my chest.
George promises he'll jump by Sunday, when he leaves the lake. Convenient.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
4 comments:
Oh man, I have got to go to that place. There was a granite quarry behind my house when I was in high-school, with jumps up to 55 feet. It took me the whole summer when I was 14 to gradually work my way from 14 feet to 55.
It's filled in now, but I can still remember the increments, the legends of kids who had gotten paralyzed and old chevy's that were on the bottom, the whole mystique of jumping.
Technique point: elbows at your side, fists out to circle rapidly as needed to keep you vertical. Point your toes before entry.
Oh yeah, that sexism thing. You're right about the balls and hair on your chest lines. I prefer "Don't be a wuss."
I prefer "man it up." But hey, it takes some cojones to post something like this. Good work, Kate.
I prefer the term "huevos." It makes (almost) everyone feel inadequate on an equal opportunity basis.
i'm reading a book right now called "that takes ovaries" it's a collection of true stories of women doing things that, if they were men, would have classified them as "having balls." there is a great discussion of the meaning of both phrases in the intro. and the stories themselves are fantastic! some small scale, some huge scale, some personal, some political, some emotional, all inspiring.
Post a Comment