I asked him about his favorite restaurants and bars. A couple other places in the neighborhood were decent, but he said he hadn’t yet found a favorite.
“Oh?” I replied, still smiling as I reached into my purse for my card.
“Yeah. It’s been tough to find a place I’m really comfortable with,” he said. “I’m usually disappointed with most gay bars.”
And… The microphone dropped.
As I walked to the parking lot, I alternated between shaking my head and laughing at my naïvety and my clearly inadequate gaydar.
I could have given Tom my card anyway. Even if romance was out of the question, I’m certain he would have made a fabulous new friend. Yet, my card included the link to my blog, and I knew I’d be writing that very night about our encounter. That made any new friendship too awkward.
Still, considering my week of engaging with strange—and not so strange—men, talking with Tom had been a delightful way to spend an afternoon.
As I headed back toward the ’burbs, I wondered if I’d been remiss by sitting at a bar all week. Maybe a different result required a totally different kind of venue. I headed to a nearby bookstore, my own favorite hot spot.
I roamed the aisles for nearly an hour, but the only guy I managed to engage in conversation was a man who was shopping with his wife, buying their daughter the entire Harry Potter series. I left there alone but not disappointed, since I did walk away with a plastic bag full of books.
None of my 52/52 dating experiences resulted in one successful date. But as I honestly considered this, I knew I never had been committed to searching for Mr. Right. If he showed up on my doorstep, I might not turn him away. But I didn’t need Mr. Right, and having a man in my life—at least now—wasn’t important enough for me to go looking.
Over the past year, I’d become a more independent woman, fulfilling my life in many ways. If romance happened, on its own, I might welcome it. If it didn’t, I’d be good with that, too. I was alone, but not lonely.
Sometimes you find fulfillment through a romantic relationship, and you find pleasure between the bed covers. Yet it’s possible to also find happiness in so many areas of your life—maybe even between the covers of a book.
When I got home that evening, I curled up on the couch, cracked open a new paperback, and smiled.
A few pages later, I was already in love.
Chapter 52:
UP, UP, AND AWAIT
Over the past year, I had faced potential injury, anxiety, and humiliation, all with varying degrees of success. I’d grown bolder and braver in many aspects of my life. Yet one particular fear—my greatest nightmare—continued to plague me. While I didn’t prove to be allergic to bees, I knew I was still deathly allergic to the thought of crashing to extinction from an ungodly height.
I’d confronted this lifelong fear twice through The 52/52 Project: Zip-lining brought me the thrill of victory, and a high ropes course provided the agony of defeat. But a ride in a hot-air balloon would test this fear by the extreme—specifically, by thousands of feet.
Although the balloon ride was one of the first escapades added to my list, it was the last one checked off. Was this a mere coincidence? Or, through some sadistic irony, had I made it through the entire year only to drop to my death on the very last day?
Scheduling the ride seemed simple enough. Captain Phogg’s Balloon Quest in Fenton, Michigan, offered two rides a day, year-round. I had bought a discounted coupon package for four back in February, and the extra tickets were quickly scooped up by my friends, Joan B., Martin, and Roxanne.
For the best weather conditions, the balloon company recommended their sunrise flights. However, a sunset trip scheduled on a weekend worked best for our group. Since none of us was keen about flying in Michigan’s toxic winter conditions, we marked our calendars for an evening in April. We also agreed on a couple contingency dates, just in case the first one fell through.
The brochure noted: “Balloons require stable and calm weather conditions. If weather forces cancellation of your flight, simply reschedule and continue to do so until the flight is completed.”
Ha. We soon learned this warning was subtle, at best.
When our planned April flight rolled around, I received a midday notice that the trip was cancelled due to high winds. Ditto with the following arranged date. And then, the next.
Kudos to the pilot for erring on the side of safety. But, really? Even though I had major misgivings about this plan, I’d always been a rip-the-bandage-off-quickly type. I wanted to get this final and frightening experience over. How bad could high winds be? I didn’t care if our balloon ended up landing in the Emerald City. I just wanted to hoist sail and go.
May arrived, along with disturbing national news: A hot-air balloon had crashed in Virginia, killing all three people aboard. Our next rescheduled launch was set for the very next day. I tried to reassure my friends, and especially myself, that the safest day to go up in a balloon was probably the day after one crashed.
We couldn’t confirm this theory though. Wind warnings cancelled that trip, too.
So it went. Again and again. And again. Over that entire spring and into the summer, my fellow passengers and I touched base every afternoon of a scheduled flight, only to learn it was a no-go. Synchronizing a mutually available evening for four people, just to have our plans changed at the last minute, proved to be a logistic nightmare. Each time our trip was cancelled, our reactions fluctuated between disappointment, annoyance, and relief. The sense of relief was mostly mine.
The morning of our eighth rescheduled date—in June—I announced a new scientific discovery: The odds of being struck twice by lightning were far better than the odds of a successful hot-air balloon liftoff. As I awaited the weather verdict, I suggested to my Catholic readers that they offer up a prayer to Saint Jude, the patron saint of lost causes.
Apparently, the weather gods weren’t Catholic. I called and gave my cohorts the newest bad news, which all of them said they fully expected.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Blah-blah-blah,” one of them said. “I actually went ahead and made other plans for tonight. Next time, I’ll just assume we’re cancelled. Next time, call me only if, by some miracle, we’re a go.”
At this rate, I figured my year of new adventures at the age of fifty-two might not be completed until I turned eighty-two. I considered calling the Sunset House Nursing Home, to see if I could schedule a hot-air balloon launch there in 2043.
We rescheduled, once again, for late July.
The night before our tenth rescheduled flight, yet another balloon crashed—after striking a power line in a residential area in Massachusetts. Hordes of readers said I should take this as a sign to cancel. Wise advice, perhaps. But I was so close to the end of my 52/52 quest. And, the balloon ride was prepaid, with no refunds. Lose hundreds of dollars or potentially lose my life? Tough call.
Besides, I suspected I wouldn’t need to chicken out. This damn trip would never come to fruition anyway, through no fault, nor fear, of mine.
Once again, I found myself rationalizing that the odds of two balloon crashes in less than twenty-four hours were miniscule. Surely it was worth the risk.
What, exactly, were the risks? The next morning, as I waited for the pilot’s call about the evening’s flight, I reviewed the balloon company’s brochure again, taking special note of its requirement for a signed waiver. “Balloon flights,” the Captain Phogg flyer read, “may involve the possibility of physical risks greater than those encountered in daily life.”
Thank you, Captain Obvious.
The brochure also read, “Turn your dreams into reality. Drift free with the wind, suspended from a cloud of color and calling greetings to those unfortunately earthbound.”
Being “earthbound,” especially after this latest balloon disaster, didn’t seem like such a bad option.
The pilot’s call came early that afternoon.
“You’re calling to cancel, I assume?” His timing was good.
I was just deciding what to make for dinner. I was leaning toward microwave popcorn and Diet Coke, for a change.
“No, the forecast looks great,” he said. “Tonight’s flight is on!”
“But that might change in the next few hours, right? I should expect another call, when we’re halfway through our hour-and-a-half drive, to tell us to turn back?”
“Nope. The winds are going to be quite low tonight. This is definitely a go. For sure.”
For sure? I’d hold him to that, I vowed, as I called each of my fellow fliers. While I secretly half-hoped our balloon ride would never happen, I knew my friends would show him no mercy if he continued to mess with us.
After making the calls, I headed out in my minivan to round up the troops. Son #2, who happened to be in town that weekend, also joined us. It would be comforting, I figured, to have a loved one by my side when I drew my final breath.
Most of the group appeared less concerned about being hoisted a couple thousand feet into the air, however, than they did about the car ride.
Well, sure, we were almost late for our long-awaited flight. By the time I picked up all my passengers—and after I took a few wrong turns—the ninety-minute drive took nearly twice as long. And, I took only partial responsibility for our near-death experience when we exited the highway for a bathroom break. After all, it was my first attempt ever at maneuvering a roundabout. These were simple mistakes anyone could have made. At least our feet would be on the ground if our car crashed.
We finally arrived, checked in, and signed our waivers. I’d signed my share of these over the past year. But this strangely simplistic one, I had a hunch, could be the last in more ways than one.
Our pilot, Craig, assured us he had forty years of experience and that safety was no concern. In fact, he noted the company’s high insurance rate wasn’t even related to the flight, but due to the fact that passengers were transported from the landing site by van.
“So, if you were worried about the safety of this flight,” he said, “let this reassure you it is far more dangerous to ride in a car.”
“See?” Son #2 nudged me. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Uh-huh,” I whispered back. “You realize he is paid to say that. Besides, whether he crashes our balloon or crashes our van, we’re as good as dead.”
After watching a short video, which tactically omitted accident images of any sort, we headed outside.
The inflated balloon was tethered and sprawled on its side, to provide easier entry into the passenger basket. Accompanied by five other passengers, we crawled inside. It proved less troublesome than, say, entering a race car through a window, yet I still required assistance.
“Always manage to be high-maintenance,” remained my motto.
We all leaned inside the basket, nearly stacked horizontally, as the balloon lifted and righted itself. Up, up, and away we went.
I closed my eyes and braced myself.
The balloon seemed to rise effortlessly into the air. I felt none of the turbulence or standard stomach flops experienced on airplane ascents. Opening my eyes, I peeked over the rim of the basket. Wow.
As the minutes passed, my fear grew as distant as the disappearing ground below. I gazed down at the colorful patchwork of trees and lakes. Instead of cowering in the middle of the crowd with my eyes closed, as expected, I fought for the best vantage point.
“Wow,” I repeated. “This is… amazing!”
Everyone agreed. At least they seemed to agree, given their huge grins. None of us could hear much of what was said, over the roar of the gas fire that pumped the balloon.
Those surges of gas were ear-blasting, and the flames—only inches away—were blistering. We jumped every time the pilot fed the fire. Yet these infernos proved to be the most alarming aspect of our trip. The fact that the ground was now a couple thousand feet below us seemed nearly immaterial.
The entire flight was smooth. My stomach and my nerves remained calm. And the sights? They were glorious.
With forests and fifty lakes within a ten-mile radius, this area was a popular balloon route for a reason. As we hovered in the air, we glimpsed two smaller, private balloons and two larger commercial ones like ours. We momentarily dropped lower next to one so we could wave across to its passengers.
A former coworker now living in Michigan posted later on Facebook that she had seen four balloons in the sky that night. Kathy had read of my long rescheduling saga but had no idea where my balloon flight was scheduled or that I’d finally launched. She wondered if, by chance, I was flying that night in the Fenton, Michigan area.
“Yes, that was us!” I wrote back. What was the likelihood that someone I knew would spot me?
Even more, what were the odds I would not only survive the flight but find it exhilarating and enjoyable? Perhaps it was because my fears had been unfounded. As with so many of this year’s experiences, I learned the anticipation of some-thing I feared was usually the most agonizing part.
We began our gradual descent and momentarily dropped down further for an up-close view of one of the lakes. As we waved to boaters, we dipped down into the lake. A couple inches of water poured into the basket before we lurched back into the sky.
Was this a planned part of the ride? Captain Craig admitted we’d experienced more of a “down drift” than he expected. “Sorry about that,” he said. “Hope none of you got too wet. In a balloon, the wind is both our motor and our steering wheel.”
I elbowed my friend, Joan. “Um, maybe we’ll be landing in Oz after all.”
But Captain Craig told us he had his eyes set on a field just ahead.
We began another slow descent and then accelerated toward the earth. As we landed, the balloon bounced a couple times upon the ground before a few spotters who’d followed along brought us to a gentle landing.
Our flight lasted more than an hour. Unlike several of my escapades, I enjoyed it so much I never found myself counting down the minutes until it would end.
Once the van carried us—safely—back to balloon headquarters, we toasted the success of our trip with champagne. This victory had entailed ten times of rescheduling over five months. We all agreed it was worth every penny, every phone call, and every held breath.
As I had drifted across the sky, in the last of my planned fifty-two new challenges, I swallowed any remaining fear of this final experience. I eyed the huge world around me. I contemplated what other wonders in life might yet await me, if I continued to push past personal barriers and embrace new adventures.
If there had been enough room in that balloon’s crowded wicker basket, I would have broken into a celebratory song and dance. Not my planned performance of “Up, Up and Away,” but perhaps the “Hokey Pokey.”
After all, life was very much like that cheesy song. All you have to do is put your whole self in, shake it all about, and damned if you don’t turn yourself around.
Epilogue:
THE END—AND A NEW BEGINNING
This is where my year of new challenges officially ended. And where the rest of my new life began.
Some results and ramifications of the past year were more obvious than others. They included the writing and publishing of this book, which I assume you have nearly finished reading. I owe you a Bloody Mary for that. I hope you enjoyed hearing about my misadventures as much as I enjoyed—well, mostly enjoyed—living them.
I learned loads about random subject matter of which I had little prior knowledge: Segways and isolation tanks, rhinos and bees, ghosts and nuns.
I made hundreds of new friends—some through the experiences themselves and others through my blog. I continued to get together with my stranger party guests, and I even babysat the Baldwin Quad Squad a couple more times. Many of my blog readers became Facebook friends, and I went on to meet several in person, too.
The following year, The 52/52 Project motivated me to travel across the country and take on a number of other new exploits. I dubbed this the “National Stranger Party
Tour.”
Based on the popularity of my original stranger party, I invited readers and other strangers to join me on monthly adventures. These fun and mostly nonthreatening excursions included a scavenger hunt in Boston, a night in a haunted hotel near Denver, a Partridge Family Bus bar crawl in Milwaukee, and drag queen bingo in Orlando. On one trip, after ten years of hesitation, I even took the step to meet up with my father’s long-lost brother. After all, I had learned that the experiences I envisioned as the most awkward and uncomfortable ended up being the most rewarding.
A number of folks told me I inspired them to take more risks and to jump-start their own lives. Several readers embarked on similar quests. That continued to inspire me, too.
When I considered all the wonderful people I inadvertently met and the unanticipated outcomes of so many of my experiences, I began to believe there was no such thing as pure chance. Some things are surely meant to be. We don’t always hear serendipity knocking, but it’s often there to greet us if we just open the door.
My year of new adventures even enriched my relationships with my family. My mother came along on a handful of challenges and told me if she was even ten years younger, she’d have asked to join me on more. And my two grown sons were occasionally horrified but mostly proud.
After watching an interview with one of the hosts of Jackass, my oldest son told me the guy’s remarks reminded him of The 52/52 Project. “So, that’s cool,” said Son #1. “I’ll bet you never thought your life would mirror Johnny Knoxville’s.” Indeed.
When I nonchalantly told Son #2 that I couldn’t meet for lunch because I was scheduled for a zookeeper gig, he paused. “I have to say, when this is all over, I am really going to miss these strange conversations of ours.” What we both eventually realized, however, was that it was likely never to be over, not even when I completed everything on my list. This mission changed my life in other more subtle and enduring ways.
I discovered a midlife sense of new energy. Sure, there remained times when the plans on my plate and the chaos in my life seemed so overwhelming that I did the most logical thing: I put on my pajamas at 7 p.m. and said, “Screw it.” These moments became more rare though. I learned to take a breather when I needed it, and then to pick up the pieces and pick up the pace and carry on.
Finding My Badass Self Page 25