Jumping Out of a Plane

  

 Rico was an older guy from Jamaica.  He was the coach and had all of us (there were four in this class) practice by putting on flight suits and helmets, then he strapped us to a beam by parachute lines about 4 feet up.  One by one he had us rip, drop and roll, telling us about people who forget and end up with broken legs.

    "Don't teense up da' legs. You don't roll you break. Got it?" "You don't roll you break."  He liked to say important things at least twice.  "You don't sign the release, you don't fly wit' me.  Got it?  You don't sign the release, you don't fly."
    
      He said, "Don't worry, we got radio communication set up.  Anything goes wrong, we're right there."  It was a walky talky duct taped to the top of our  parachute packs.  My flight suit was huge and I dropped a contact lens while we practiced so I had to waft over in my flappy outfit and wash it off under a hose. I was tougher in those days, eye wise. 

    Rico explained that there would be a white van with a big black arrow on the roof.  It would be driving through the fields and we would spot it when we got close enough to the ground for it to matter. We should aim ourselves at the van.  All we had to do to steer left was yank on the left rope and so on.   He said the parachute would open all by itself because it was attached to the roof of the airplane with something called a "dope rope."  I approved of the dope rope idea all the way.

      The plane was old, small and smelled like gasoline.  There was room for a pilot and then a hollowed out section in back where we all huddled, except for Rico, who held onto a strap near where a door should've been.   I jumped out second, because I wanted to see if he treated me any differently than the guy in front.  I looked over and the first jumper looked green, like he might puke.  Rico yelled, "Get up here!  Now, now now! You!  Let's GO!" and the he-man stepped half way out of the plane onto the wing strut.  "What are you doing? You look like a monkey screwing a coconut!  Jump!  Jump! GO!"     Then he said the exact same thing to me, and down I went.

      There was a "whoosh" sound, then complete quiet. I couldn't see anything but clouds for a few seconds and it felt amazing, being that high up in the air.  Too soon, the ground below came into view.  It was a patchwork quilt of blues, greens and greys zooming up towards me.  It was easy to spot the van below and aim for it; it was harder when I landed on the soft dark field dirt and the parachute filled with air before I could get up off the ground and find my footing. 

     I felt myself being airlifted just at ground level backwards by my parachute cords.  I almost remembered something Rico said about cutting loose from the chute if needed, but it felt pretty good, skimming the surface.  I figured I may as well get as much use out of the suit flight suit as possible and make it really worth the eighty bucks.  The ride didn't last long when the wind suddenly changed and I was at the end of a cloud of dust a quarter of a football field.  I got up and said, "Ta-daaa!"

       Here's what I found out from jumping out of a plane.  Mom was right.  There is no good reason to jump out of a perfectly good plane.  Except that it was fun and now I can see that it did help me to challenge myself and see if my courage could overcome my fear.  That's what it means to be a strong woman.

  It doesn't mean no fear.  It just means doing it anyway, sometimes.                                                                                                                                                              

Geronimo Part 1

 This is the story about the time I jumped out of a plane.  It was 1980, I was a junior at UM and I was 20.

        The ad in “The Weekly News” said, “Skydive Miami.  $79,” so I called and talked to James.  He gave me directions to a dusty private air field in the middle of deep South Dade.  Cash only, please, and be ready to sign a fat waiver letting us make a fuck-up or two, but probably not on your jump. 

 

         I drove down with my best friend from high school, Jill.  She wanted to try out the new camera she got for her birthday and it turned out to be a boon for her, too, because she got to ride around for  half an hour in a panel truck full of the Nude Skydiving Club.  She and the driver were the only two under forty and not naked, so it was wall to wall baggy balls, she told me, but even so, the snapshots turned out to be very tasteful.  They put their chutes in their laps.

          I’ve always been fascinated by high places, and if I hadn’t done college and grad school I might’ve been a tower crane operator or a high rise window washer. And flight is in my blood, being the daughter of a helicopter pilot, so parachuting sounded like fun. 

        When I told Dad, he regaled me with stories about his Airborne days and reminded me to tuck and roll.  He said, "Your momma never understood why someone would want to jump out of a perfectly good plane."  But I did, so off we went.

         The airfield was way out in the middle of nowhere, even past the place with the great strawberry milkshakes, Burr's Berry Farm, and I learned a lot on the drive. 

              

        On the way down, Jill told me about the concept of “tailgating” which I’d never heard before, ever.   
         She said, “For example, if you smash this Gremlin into the back of that tractor in front of us?That’s called tailgating and you get the ticket, not him.”
         I said, "How is that fair?  He's only going 12 miles an hour!  On a tractor!"
         Jill said, "You're just gonna have to trust me on this one."  So I did.

         Then the song "Turning Japanese" came on the radio.  She turned it up loud and said, "I heard this song is about jacking off."
       
        I said, "I don't get it."
         
        She squinted her eyes, stuck out her front teeth and made the universal sign for male masturbation.

         "Now I get it," I said.  Jill was only a year older than me, but she was a regular pinata of interesting information.
       

      

        

          

      .

From Black & White to Technicolor

       I took a walk to the other side of the encyclopedia, as Tori Amos would say.  She wrote this song, “Cornflake Girl” years ago and I’ve always loved it.  Then I saw the video where at the end these amazing women put a hot stud into a huge pot of water on a fire, cannibal style, and dance around him while he whittles a carrot into his bath/stew water.  It loses something in translation, but Youtube it;  I bet you’ll like it, too.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Eiv7H9XQRY

     Anyway, back to my walk.  I live in a black and white world, mostly, punctuated here and there with transcendent moments of laughter, bliss and fun.  When I get home from the job I mostly like, I walk my dog, put on the TV, blaze a while and then go to bed to do it all over again. 

      On days off I wake up at 11,  take a hot bath and luxuriate in it.  Then it’s clothes cleaning and dog cleaning and house cleaning and daytime TV court shows!  Once in a blue moon I’ll go out for a beer with my friend/ ex-lover and at least once a week I go find Sammy, my best 7 year old friend, and we play video games or he reads and talks to me about his current obsessions which right now are Skylander video games and Pokemon cards. 

     From time to time my huge, raucous family gets together and I go into this silly cocoon with my sisters where we dish, snark, throw around in-jokes and laugh way too loud for public.  No one but the sisters are included and the in-law guys shuffle around the periphery being ignored and talking about boats to each other.

         It’s not a horrible life, but it’s lonely.  It's kind of black and white, but when you live in that world for a while, you forget there's any such thing as a Technicolor world.

     Enter Jodi.  From the first time we talked I’ve been wildly attracted to her.  It wouldn’t be that unusual, except it is for me because I haven’t been remotely attracted to anyone for about the last decade.  It’s like that part of me shut down after a bad experience of two with lovers, and over time it’s bothered me less and less.  At least on a conscious level.  But I know I want more.  I want to connect with someone who challenges me to be more, exposes me to new ideas, and attracts me on way more than just one level. 

     And Jodi sure seems to fit that description.  She says what she thinks and touts herself as someone who doesn’t play games.  She’s honest to a fault, even when it doesn’t advance her agenda.  She's brilliant, with a photographic mind for what she reads and a photographic ear for all she hears.  She’s completely dedicated to the care and feeding of a pair of daughters she would kill or die for.  She’s incredibly sexy and brash and funny and when she laughs hard her whole body gets in on it.  And she laughs a lot.  She has integrity, except when she does not.  She is unapologetic and seems impervious to criticism.  Jodi is pretty close to perfect and I started out in awe of her.  Now it’s been a month of hanging out daily and it’s time to stop and catch my breath.

    I feel in love with her.  I think about her a lot, even when I’m trying not to.  I want to be wherever she is.

       I want to smell her jacket because that’s as close as I can get to her because she can’t stand my touch.  It’s nothing personal, she says.  But being touched or hugged or kissed makes her queasy.  I’m starving for her to touch me and let me touch her or hold her, but I’m not going to push her, ever.  That fact doesn’t mean sex is ruled out, somehow, but she can’t be my lover the way I currently and historically have defined the word. 

    So here I am, knowing better and still holding out hope.

    It’s kind of the worst of both worlds. But somehow it rolls off me and I still want to be near her. 

    She also bitches a lot, about anything and everything.  She rails at traffic, drivers, her kids, anyone she deems a “retard” for any reason.  She bitches at me, she bitches at her sinus congestion, she bitches that the weather is too cold or too hot.  Jodi does not believe in pent-up emotion.  She likes to un-pent hers often and in every direction except toward her 112 lb pitbull who she adores. 

     But I don't think she adores me.  If fact, sometimes I think she barely tolerates me.  I fell right into it with her; instant, strong attraction like I’ve rarely ever felt.  As for the way she thinks and feels about me, she’s  told me,  “I like your company,” and “I’m fond of you,” but she’s also called me contradictory, accused me of being a game player, called me a liar (but only when I was lying) and issued all kinds of ultimatums about what’ll happen if I don’t shape up. 

     She’s issued decrees telling me, “I’m done” where we’re concerned (not that there is any real “we” except in my head) then tried to gaslight me when I called her on it, saying, “I didn’t imply done forever; that was just you reading into it…”   

    In short, I’m pretty much screwed, and not in the good way.  Maybe the attraction will pass, but I don’t know if I want it to.  Probably I’m an idiot, but at least I feel alive for a little while. Here's to Technicolor Blindness.

    

So. Yeah...Jodi.

         

         

I'm in limerence. I know because I wikipeedeed it up and here's what it says:

"...Limerence is an involuntary state of mind which results from a romantic attraction to another person combined with an overwhelming, obsessive need to have one's feelings reciprocated. The psychologist Dorothy Tennov coined the term "limerence" in her 1979 book Love and Limerence: The Experience of Being in Love to describe the concept that had grown out of her work in the mid-1960s, when she interviewed over 500 people on the topic of love."

       
       There's this old joke that goes, "What does a lesbian bring on a second date?" 
                              Answer?  "A U-Haul truck."

        And I wish I could deny it, but there you have it.  I am a cliche and I'm in limerence.

        Luckily she seems to feel the same way.  Jodi is more than a friend, but she's that, too.  She gets my mind churning with her point of view and if I don't agree with what she's saying, she explains it and spins out her rationale. She's never given in yet to an argument, but she considers all sides with an open mind.

       She's wildly funny with this hard edge I've always been drawn toward like a moth to a blow torch . Or used to be drawn toward because for the last decade or so whatever draws one person to another has been asleep in me.  Strictly dormant until now.

        The second night we went out, I proposed because I love her already and she hasn't had decent health care in years.  It wasn't too romantic which is good because Jodi is sort of the anti-romantic.

     I said, "You need a good doctor and dentist.  Marry me and I'll put you on my policy.  It just makes sense."

   She said, "That's the most retarded thing I've ever heard."  Jodi is not very politically correct, but she speaks her mind like a pro. 

    And I've had more fun with her in the last ten days then I have in the last ten years.

          

   

Love: Still the Biggest Thrill

       

    
      http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3EjcwIVL3s8
  


         I love Katt Williams, the comedian.  He says, in so many words, you've got to take care of the star player, and you are the star player.  Managing to take care of body and soul has its own thrills, but it's not enough.  Love is still the biggest thrill.
     
      Here's another one of my guiding philosophies:  "If Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy."  And by "Mama" I mean me.   I don't make everyone around me miserable if I happen to be in a bad place.  If anything, I'm more inclined to hibernate and hide out while I work through the blues.  
    
      But keeping my own self happy is a big priority.
    
       That means my own wishes and whims come first, mostly. 
      
       It means I come and go when I want, spend how I want, vote how I want, eat what I want, sleep when I want, think what I want and work the way I want. It's not accidental; I've spent a long time crafting it to be just this way.

        It's a good life in a beautiful paradise of a city, but all alone it feels empty. Even if work is going well, everyone is healthy at home, and the world is clicking away on its axis in mostly predictable ways, unless I reach out for love, to give it and get it, there's something off.  I can feel it like a sunburn that's too far under the skin to soothe.

        So my biggest thrill is love.  That's it.  Love for all of it: family, my sisters, my friends, the Grove, the critters, small kids  at the library where I work and this whole astounding gift of a life. 
   

Rayette

          When I was a little girl, I fell in love with Rayette on the parade grounds at a war college in Norfolk, Virginia.  My dad was  at the school and we lived on the army base.  She lived there, too, but she was older by two years and my big sister knew her from school.

One day I was running around barefoot through the grass and I stepped on a yellow jacket bee.  It was like fire, and sudden, and I started screaming.  Rayette swooped down from out of nowhere, dried up my tears and carried me across the neighborhood like a baby, all the way to my door.

I fell for her right then.  She had a thick french braid of long blonde hair and her wrist, right where it met her hand, was thick, too, which I really liked.  I told her I could read her palm so I could hold her hand the next day, and she laughed while I pretended and gave goofy answers like a fortune teller.

The day after that I made a picture for her in first grade.  It was a horse because she reminded me of a cowgirl for some reason.  I was big on cowgirls at age 7.  I started following her all over the place and hanging around where she would be at the park and before long she invited me over to her house.

I threw down my school stuff and said, "Mom, I'm going to my friend's."
But it was Dad at the dinette set, not Mom.
"Whose house?  What friend?" he barked.
"Just my friend, Rayette."
"Naw, you aren't going over to that sergent's house."
"Dad?! Why?"
"You got no business over there."

And that was the end of my budding love affair with Rayette.