(Mood soundtrack Aaliyah)
I am officially 26 in t-minus 2 hours. Let’s get confessional.
I am often afraid. I’m afraid of falling and failing. I am afraid of losing more people I love. I am afraid I have no idea what I’m doing with my career.
My fears manifest most powerfully in my dreams; just the other night I had to stab a hungry zombie to prevent it from eating my grandma. Nothing like a good night’s sleep.
The worst, though, is when fear manifests itself, slowly but surely, in your waking life decisions. Let’s take the example of skiing: an activity that makes me perspire like I’m about to nose dive off the empire state. I’m convinced that I’ll end up another statistic of some freak accident; I even bought SMART accident insurance. The daunting steepness, the slippery ice, the screaming wind; I feel like Alice plummeting down the rabbit hole, except there is no wonderland. So, logically, whenever there is a group ski trip planned: I go.
Am I insane? Probably. The thing is, for me, skiing has become a stubborn endeavor to conquer my fears. Because when I am stuck at the top of that frigid mountain, I realize, that in a worst case scenario, no one can save me but myself. So I get up, fall on my butt, get up, pop out of my skis, get up, cry, scream, and repeat the falling thrice more. I continue this exercise until I get to the bottom of the mountain.
Occasionally, every year, there is a single moment when I feel like I’ve got it; that I’m flying over powdered purity; and I finally understand why New Englander’s dedicate their entire weekends to this premeditated type of torture.
And that’s pretty effing great.