I grew up an only child. I had eye problems that to this day cause issues with my depth perception. My parents were very loving, and protective and spent a lot of time and money to help correct some issues with my eyes resulting in three operations when I was six and seven. I stumbled on stairs (still do) and curbs (still do) and missed the other side on jumps (ditto) because I couldn't (and can't) judge the distance correctly.
All that to say this: When it comes to adventurous endeavors involving physical activity, I am a complete chicken. I don't need a big adrenaline rush from jumping off cliffs, parasailing, or roller coasters. I have plenty stored up right here in my near-sighted, imaginative brain.
But after I married a thrill junkie, and taught hyper high school kids for a year or so, I decided that I needed to conquer my inner-chicken and ride a roller coaster. Looking back, I'm sure it was all because of some stupid sense of pride, with the key word there being "stupid."
One lovely spring day my husband and I took off for Six Flags Over Georgia for a break from teaching and paramedic-ing. We went to shows, and rode the the water rides, and then came the question that changed the day: "Wife" he said, "Do you still want to conquer your first roller coaster ride?" "No." I answered. Then "Yes." Then "No," etc. for about an hour. Then finally, "Yes. Yes! Okay. Let's go."
We approached the park's famous roller coaster "The Great American Scream Machine." I should have known from the name that this was a bad idea, but now my stupid pride pushed me forward. As I stood in line, I watched children barely tall enough to ride this wooden monster jump into the frail looking cars hooked together with chains made of what must surely be paper clips. They hopped in smiling, took off, and returned with bigger smiles and shouts of "Again! Again!" I could do this. I'm no kid. I'm a GREAT AMERICAN and this is my MACHINE.
Finally, we came to the front of the line, and my husband in some fit of mistaken sense of help asked for the front car. "It will be easier" he said. I smiled, (Not really) and climbed in and let the
And I screamed. Then I screamed again, "We are all FOOLS!" Not even at the top, I began to cry. I mean really cry as in the big, huge drops that always melted my mom's heart. We reached the peak of the pinnacle of the top of all things known to man, and as we paused at the top I surveyed the world for the last time, and then we dropped. I get a little short of breath just reliving this, so bear with me. . . . Okay. We sped through loops and ups and downs while the tears that flowed from my eyes flowed back into my well-moused 80's style hair. And this GREAT AMERICAN helped this wooden monster earn its name and I SCREAMED, and I cried, and my hair blew, and I plotted my husband's death, and then it was over.
Our car pulled into the station, and I sat there stunned. The nice ride worker mentioned that I should get out of the car because others were waiting. I looked at him, but didn't really see him. My husband led me out. "Take a step with your right foot, now your left. Oh, and you should breathe." I finally found my way to a curb clear of traffic, and I plopped down, and continued plotting the death of my husband, along with the death of that nice ride worker, all those little enthusiastic kids, and the inventor of the roller coaster. I could tell my husband felt badly for me, but he kept looking at me and stifling a chuckle. That chuckle did not bode well for the dismantling of my death plot for him.
After around thirty minutes, the world came back to a semi-normal level and I went to the restroom to wash the dried tears from my face. I walked in and looked in the mirror. As I mentioned, my hair was moussed and that I had cried huge tears of terror. Those tears had flowed back into the hair at my temples, melded with the mousse, and dried. While the rest of my hair had a nice, wind blown look of death, that hair stuck straight out from the side of my head like the bristles of a broom. I began laughing. It was a hoarse, scratchy laugh due to the vigorous screaming. But it was a hearty laugh because I looked so ridiculous and because I was happy to be alive.
This roller coaster created hair style was not a good look, and I am grateful that this all occurred before the advent of phone cameras. Not that I'm really all that vain, but because my husband would have taken the picture and make it my profile picture, and then I would have been widowed and in jail in my twenties.
I'm sure there's spiritual application in there somewhere. God's grace protecting all those innocents from certain death by allowing me to laugh at my hair. Perhaps the experience showed me that I could try some things that made me uncomfortable without actually dying. Or maybe, I just needed to mark this off my bucket list early before I had kids, so that I could allow them to ride without fear due to my great example of the past -because I certainly wasn't going to join any one on any future roller coaster rides. Or maybe, God allowed me to do this so I could make you laugh. Hope it worked.
Love and screams,
Teapotjan
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