Finding My Badass Self

by Sherry Stanfa-Stanley

  She admitted the whole experience had been traumatic. At the age of thirty-three, she was now willing—with great reservation—to give it another shot.

  I didn’t know the extent of this story until the morning of our outing. Hearing these details was a bit disconcerting. But I welcomed Laura as a courage-seeking comrade. We’d make a good match as two chicken shits supporting each other through an agonizing escapade. And young Haley, who appeared fearless, would provide the necessary naïve bravado to encourage us upward and onward.

  Our litany of excuses for backing out commenced as soon as we climbed into the car. Laura and I considered calling it off because poor Haley had a stomachache. Plus, the parking lot was pretty full; we weren’t certain we could find a spot. And, it was possible the rec center office misplaced our guest passes. By the time we climbed the three levels of stairs to the course, we devised a half-dozen excuses before we ran out of any viable ones.

  Once we filled out our waivers (liability waivers—never a good sign for safety or survival), we took our place in the long line. We surveyed the crowd. All the other participants appeared to be college students: lean, muscular, and in their physical prime.

  And then we stood at the railing and took a good look out at the course.

  “Holy shit,” I said. “This is even worse than I imagined.”

  The online photos didn’t give any justice to the terror. The height wasn’t the only challenge. It was obvious this task relied on both intricate coordination and great upper-body strength in order to grab each consecutive rope, balance upon the swing, and step onto the next. How had we been roped into this? As fit and agile as these college students looked, to say they appeared struggling on the course was an under-statement.

  I peered down at my stubby arms and chubby legs. This would be one small step for man, one giant leap for my kind.

  We watched a young man maneuvering his way across the course. He painstakingly studied his steps, trying to catch hold of the next rocking wooden plank, all the while pulling his security cable along the way. His odds for success seemed as shaky as his footing.

  He paused and shouted to someone on the catwalk. “OK, this is why they make you sign a freaking waiver!”

  I unfolded the waiver in my hand and read it. It noted the dangers could result in “physical or emotional injury, paralysis, death or damage to myself, to property or to third parties.” Specific risks included “falls and falling… or even more severe life-threatening hazards.”

  I wasn’t certain what could be more life-threatening than falling three stories onto the inflexible surface of a basketball court. The fate of the hoops players below wasn’t looking so good either.

  I cringed and looked back toward the course. My attention was drawn to a young woman in a tie-dyed shirt, attempting to step from one swing to another. The swings were situated a couple of feet apart, but as she stretched her leg from one swing to the next, the beam kept rocking further away. Over and over, she stepped and missed. She finally grabbed the rope in front of her and managed to secure one foot on the next swing. Stretching her second foot over, she succeeded in balancing her body on the wildly rocking plank.

  Just as she appeared to get her footing, the swaying board flipped backward. We watched as she slipped off. She dropped, seemingly in a freefall, before the security cable clipped onto her harness finally jolted her to a stop.

  She dangled and swiveled, mid-air.

  Laura, Haley, and I collectively muttered, “Oh, shit.” We couldn’t watch another minute.

  I turned to one of the college-aged attendants. “Um, so how often have you seen people slip off and dangle like this?”

  She peered out at the still spinning woman and paused from chewing her gum long enough to answer. “Pretty often.” She shrugged.

  I glanced at Laura and Haley. Our panicked eyes met. We observed the course participants for another ten minutes. Finally, without another word, we subtly stepped out of line to consider our options. The time had come to take flight or to flee.

  “This is way worse than the one I did when I was fifteen,” Laura admitted. “And I was in far better shape then. I’m not sure I have the physical strength to do this. And, I think I might puke a bit in my mouth.”

  My head bobbed in up-and-down spasms. “Right? Right! And what freaks me out more is the coordination this requires. I mean, coordination? I have a whole lot of none.”

  I could feasibly handle, albeit with a queasy stomach, airplane flights and other height-intensive excursions that relied on the skills of trained pilots or technicians. But my safety here, on these recreational gallows, was fully at the mercy of my lifelong faulty coordination. One misstep would leave me hanging in a harness, from a thin wire cable, three stories above the ground. And, still spinning from that cable was a best-case scenario.

  My misstep wasn’t merely a possibility; I knew, with all my heart and soul and chronic clumsiness, that it was inevitable. No one could help me across those ropes and swings. Left up to my own inadequate devices, I was certain I’d be SOL.

  I eyeballed the waiver again. It noted that the student instructors “seek safety, but are not infallible. They might be unaware of a participant’s fitness or abilities.”

  The instructors might be oblivious of my inabilities, but I was fully aware. And that, for the first time during all my new adventures, proved to be a deal-breaker.

  “I hate to admit it,” I told my friends, unable to look them in the eye. “But I’m pretty sure I can’t go through with this.”

  “Oh my God. Me, either,” Laura said. “I’m certain I’d have a panic attack midway through. What then? I don’t see any escape ropes like they had when I was fifteen. When you’re halfway across and can’t take another step, how else do you get down?”

  I recalled the swimming lessons I took when I was eight. One of the final test requirements was jumping off the ten-foot diving board. I stood on that shaking board for fifteen minutes until the instructor realized no amount of encouraging, bribing, or ridiculing me would make me jump. She finally let me climb back down the ladder. I failed the class, but even now I remained convinced that last-minute escape saved my life.

  There were no rescue ropes or ladders stationed along this course. No easy way to chicken out while standing on a swaying swing, three stories above ground.

  I turned to Haley, who’d remained mostly silent during this debate. “How about you?” I asked her. “What do you want to do?”

  Haley stepped back and threw her arms up in the air. “Not this! This should be illegal!”

  It was a consensus. We agreed this was a disaster simply waiting to happen. Those ropes might just as well have been wrapped around our necks.

  Over the past several months, I’d succeeded through every new challenge I faced. This was the first I’d failed to see through fruition. As we crumpled our waivers and headed downstairs, my failure troubled me.

  I hung my head. “I can’t believe I couldn’t go through with it.”

  “Maybe we could just Photoshop ourselves into a picture and post it online,” Haley suggested. We all agreed it was a fabulous idea, until I decided cheating was wrong. Plus, I didn’t know how to use Photoshop.

  Laura, always the consummate writer, patted my back. “You’ve only failed at this one thing. Look at it like a narrative arc in a story. There always has to be one really low period, one major conflict for the protagonist. And this was yours.”

  From a writer’s view, she had a point. Maybe there was more to it, too.

  While the high ropes course proved to be my only fully failed attempt in The 52/52 Project, the experience wasn’t without its own lesson.

  Perhaps acknowledging our limitations is an essential part of self-discovery. Maybe we learn just as much about life and about ourselves by discovering our weaknesses as well as our strengths. Maybe we succeed in growing even as we fail. Just maybe we get credit in life for simply showing up.

  Besides, the afte
rnoon’s entertainment factor wasn’t a total loss. While we each observed and envisioned our agony and defeat, my cohorts spewed out some amazing one-liners. An hour of giggling until we ached surely proved to be a more enjoyable experience than if we’d actually gone through with this whole hot hell of a mess.

  I’d never simultaneously faced fear and laughed so much at the same time. How can you regret a win-lose situation like that?

  I didn’t step one foot on one of those treacherous swings.

  But damn if it wasn’t one of the best experiences I never had.

  Chapter 42:

  CATCHING A FLIGHT TO NOWHERE

  I had never been an obsessive worrier, nor—as was evident by one glance at my mopboards—a compulsive cleaner. Yet my approach to planning and organizing my life practically screamed OCD. I was the kind of planner who wrote a detailed to-do list every morning and every night. I compiled lists of lists. Occasionally, I even amended a list to include unscheduled tasks I’d already accomplished, just for the satisfaction of crossing them off.

  I plotted out my days, my evenings, and even my vacations. Before I headed out on a trip, I wrote out a detailed itinerary for every minute, including how I would spend my time on the plane.

  Clearly, I wasn’t the type to ever consider getting up one day and driving an hour to the airport, booking the next available flight out to wherever it was going, and then hopping aboard—with no hotel reservations, no car rental, and no agenda.

  Until I did.

  Although The 52/52 Project was teaching me much about going with the flow, I panicked at the idea of embarking on a trip with little premeditation. Not only would this new experience take me far outside my comfort zone, it also would take me… well, I had no freaking idea where it would take me.

  Other than ruling out international travel due to time and expense, I didn’t allow myself to make any choices or plan any specifics. Only a few pre-travel details required fore-thought. I scheduled that Friday off work, hired a pet-sitter, and puzzled out the idea of packing.

  How did one begin to pack for a long weekend to a mystery location, especially in March with its lamb-and-lion weather? Considering I could land anywhere from Miami to Seattle to Fargo, I scribbled out a packing list. (Thank God, this one list was allowed.) I figured I’d cover all my bases with a bathing suit, cover-up, and a pair of Sperrys—as well as a winter coat, gloves, and boots.

  I also had to consider how I would pay for the trip. Minor details. I had no idea how much a last-minute flight, potentially all the way across the country, might set me back. When I blogged about my plans the night before my departure, readers began quoting me very disturbing estimates. In a panic, I threw out a half-joking request for donated air miles.

  An hour later, a longtime friend offered me enough airline points for my entire flight. Score! I called Delta and was assured I could simultaneously transfer those miles and book a flight when I arrived the next day at Delta’s Detroit Metro counter.

  The next morning, for the first time ever, I found myself able to take my time driving to the airport. Forget my usual race through the terminal, praying I didn’t miss my plane. This time, I knew I’d arrive right on time for my flight; I just was clueless about which flight that would be.

  As I sat on the shuttle bus from an off-site parking lot, I considered the possibilities. I could wind up somewhere like Hopeulikit, Georgia or maybe Hooker Corner, Indiana, both of which I’d recently discovered were totally real towns. I was sure both these places were lovely. Still, I preferred to end up either in a big city I’d never visited or, even though it was a long shot, a warm beach. I’d grown so, so weary of the sadistic Ohio winter that had roared in my frostbitten face for the last five months.

  My fate would be left up to the timing of my arrival and the ticketing agent. It was exciting. And more than a bit unnerving. Based on several friends’ comments, I also grew concerned that my last-minute booking might get me flagged as a terrorist threat. While I doubted many terrorists allowed the airline to choose their flight, I didn’t relish the possibility of being pulled aside for an in-depth search and interrogation.

  I wandered into the terminal, taking several deep breaths and practicing a vague recollection of Lamaze-style breathing. That had done me little good two decades ago, when both my children’s births ended in C-sections.

  Approaching the Delta counter, I explained my complex story to the attendant. She gave me a confused smile.

  “I’d love to help you,” she said. “But I have no way at all of knowing which departing flights have available seats, let alone which ones are eligible for SkyMile points. You’ll need to call the SkyMiles toll-free number to arrange that.”

  Readjusting my dropped chin, I stepped out of line and plopped onto a bench across from the counter. I found my SkyMiles card in my wallet and dialed the toll-free phone number. When I finally reached a real person, I launched into a long explanation of my mission and my dilemma.

  My new best friend at Delta loved the idea of The 52/52 Project, but she didn’t seem to fully comprehend my objective.

  “OK,” she said. “Sure, I can make your reservation. Where exactly do you want to go?”

  “You don’t understand. I don’t care where I go. Well, I care, of course, but I’m not allowed to choose,” I explained again. “Just tell me the next flight out from Detroit, wherever it is going, which hasn’t begun boarding and still has an available seat eligible for SkyMiles.”

  “Oh.” She paused. A very long pause. “So, you’re asking me to choose a flight for you?”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Hey, I’m really sorry. Am I putting too much pressure on you?”

  “Yeah, this is definitely the first time someone has asked me to do this. But, alright, if you truly just want the next available flight from Detroit, it would be… well… it looks like it’s Fort Myers, Florida.”

  Seriously? A warm beach it was! I did a happy dance around the terminal.

  But my celebration proved premature. My SkyMiles BFF told me she couldn’t book the flight until the donated miles were transferred to my account. And that could only be done online.

  My hands began shaking. Did these people not understand my planning anxieties? I required a boarding pass pronto! I needed to learn exactly where I was going and when I was leaving, so I could then check those rather significant items off my mental list. While I freaked out, I made another mental list of every Delta employee who had lied or had misinformed me about this whole flight fiasco, so I could file a formal complaint.

  I plopped back down on the bench. Sure, I had both my iPhone and my laptop with me, but I knew my best bet was to call Son #2, the techno-geek in the family. He was likely sitting in front of a computer and could manage the entire process far faster than I could even Google the Delta website.

  Sure enough, he managed in minutes to navigate the site and drill down to the exact online form we needed. But after numerous attempts, he continued to get error messages. I paced in circles. A half hour passed with no progress.

  I faced the growing doom that the Fort Myers flight would board before I was booked, and I’d end up on the next—unknown—flight instead. I knew it inevitably would be Fargo. Not that there was anything wrong with that.

  And then suddenly, my confirmation for the Fort Myers flight flashed across my phone.

  Happy dance resumed! I collected my boarding pass from the still confused desk clerk, texted a quick thank-you to Son #2, and raced through the airport.

  As I was whisked along the terminal’s endless series of moving sidewalks, I searched on my iPhone for Fort Myers hotel options. Huh. Apparently, Florida was a popular destination in March. Thanks to school spring breaks, most hotels were either full or were charging prime rates and a kidney for any remaining rooms.

  Nearing my gate, I discovered a flight delay left me with thirty spare minutes before boarding. I headed to the closest airport bar for a Bloody Mary.

  I believe I’ve
mentioned my deep-seated dread of flying? One pre-flight Bloody Mary generally took off the edge just enough to get me through any turbulence and fear of a faulty-engine crash landing. I ordered my drink and glanced up at a TV, where I spied a breaking news report. A Malaysian plane had disappeared, mid-flight. Just poof—gone and totally off the freaking radar.

  Maybe I’d suck that drink right down and order another.

  I distracted myself with my hotel search and called my sister, DC, a travel guru. Within minutes, she texted back with information about one last available room at an ocean-front hotel in Fort Myers Beach. But the rate was way more than I planned or could afford.

  I debated with myself. Sensible Sherry said, “Don’t do it! Book a cheap place by the airport instead!” But Senseless Sherry attempted to justify the cost. “Your airfare is already covered. And, if you’re going to all this trouble, you clearly must stay by the beach. Aren’t you worth an overpriced hotel?”

  Besides, the hotel couldn’t hold me accountable for any credit card charges once my plane crashed en route.

  Senseless Sherry made several compelling points. As usual.

  Thankfully, the most eventful part of the flight was finding myself seated directly across from a colleague, Barbara. Out of dozens of flights out of Detroit, and with neither of us knowing the other was headed to Fort Myers that day, what were the odds? As I explained the circumstances of my trip, I discovered that the woman seated next to Barbara, whom neither of us knew, followed The 52/52 Project online. Coincidence or fate? I had already begun to believe there was no such thing as a coincidence.

  My new friend, Gina, bought me another Bloody Mary. Between our conversation and the vodka, I never once noticed if the plane—or my hands—were shaking.

  Once in Fort Myers, I checked in at my hotel and was promised a reduced rate. Could my good fortune get any better? Yes, indeed it could. My balcony overlooked the pool, the tiki bar, and the ocean. The grand slam? Fort Myers was sunny and eighty degrees. As I dug through my suitcase to find my swimsuit, I gleefully tossed aside my coat, mittens, and boots.