Blogging, maybe, isn't what it used to be. I expected to be world-famous by now. Ain't happening, clearly.
No matter. I keep on sporadically boring people with bits of things. It's what I do, the bit-flinging. Or is it bytes?
This past Sunday, my life was placed in a position of extraordinary jeopardy, and I SURVIVED!!
It go like dis:
Saturday afternoon, my beloved Biff became a private pilot (big ol HeeHaw SAH-LOOT! to him!). Therefore, being the total stud-muffin that all private pilots are, he wanted to immediately show off his new wings to whomever would get in the right seat of a rattling bucket of bolts (with wings on!) and fly 'em around, preferably for long distances, as the showing-off needs a few hours to really steep.
Which is why I, as his first
Yes, dearies, Tiff got her extra-wide buttal region (and all adjacent parts) in a tee-tiny lil' ol' plane with her man, put MY LIFE in his hands, and agreed to fly over 100 miles (and several LARGE bodies of water) with him.
This, friends, if you were ever wondering, is called 'love.'
The trip was not, however, all wine and roses. In fact, we MIGHT have had a tad more time to look around at the big ol' memorial and replica historical if I had not, um, had a freak-out 60 miles into the trip.
People, the ground looks really freaking FAR AWAY when you're 3500 feet up in a miracle of engineering that is only big enough for 4. My mind kept saying' oh shit, if the engine stops, where will we LAND?' and 'oh shit, if he has a heart attack how will I land?' and other very counterproductive things of that nature.
Despite the frantic mental calisthenics I was putting us through on our way to sure fiery death, I managed to hold it together until the GPS and the navmap (I just made that up! how tecchy!) showed that there was a giant freaking body of water straight ahead and we were going to have to fly right the heck over it and nossir, I'm thinking no. Nonononono to the water, and the instant death, and the terrible news the Things will have to bear (though my death would in fact leave them fairly well off, as I believe in doubling down on the ol company-sponsored life insurance).
H to the ell no, I was not flying over that water, and thus I spake to the pilot - 'I need to get down, NOW.'
I believe I saw disappointment shine in his eyes when he realized I was not in fact talking about boogying like a dancing queen or, *ahem*, engaging in such pursuits as married folk have license to do, but I was rather IN FACT FREAKING OUT AND NEEDED TO FEEL THE GROUND UNDER MY FEET RIGHT NAO!
To his credit, he asked me to locate an airport in the vicinity on the navmap (we are lousy with airports in these parts, thankfully), landed adroitly in a brisk crosswind, told me the flight plan was mine to do with as I wanted (in essence), and then puppy-dog-eyed me when I said I didn't think I could do the water thing.
Did you read that last bit? He frelling PUPPY DOG EYED ME.
And thus it was that I crammed myself back in to the right seat of the bumblebuzz, strapped on the headseat (remembering to NOT wear earrings the next time, as the little wires are mightily pokey!), got out the map (because by the power of my holding it it would keep us in the AIR), and braced for impact.
Oh, and took a Dramamine.
Dramamine clearly has amazing powers, I think, because I mellowed right the heck out, almost enjoyed flying over the dang ocean once we got to the OBX (the first approach was a little high, apparently, though I suspect some shenanigans on the part of the boss there and I had my eyes closed for the loop-around but for second approach), and REALLY enjoyed getting boots on the ground.
Which, of course, is when the government called Biff, wondering if they ought to send search and rescue after us. Really. I keed not - the government was looking for us! Like we were smuggling exotic reptiles or selling state secrets! Except that, it was not so exciting a reason. Seems that when you cancel a 'flight following,' sometimes that ol' thing doesn't GET cancelled (even though a nervous copilot HEARD control saying they'd cancel over her pokey-eared headset) and the time you spend on the ground comforting your coward wife at an airport in the middle of noplace while she plucks up enough nerve to make it just 40 more miles puts you 30 minutes late to land at your earlier intended destination is cause for people to start thinking you may have, in fact, plunged headlong into the VAST TRACTS OF WATER over which you flew, and people are, apparently, rather concerned about such things, even if you TOLD them your plans had changed.
Phewf for the fact they were looking for us (yay!), and phewf also that when they FOUND us, nothing happened that required 1) bond, 2) a lawyer, or 3) deportation the the Netherlands.
After that scare with Big Brother we had just about as nice a visit as you can have at the OBX in 90 degree weather if you have 15 minutes to kill, then loaded back up in the rattletrap to head to home.
And you know what?
It was awesome.
With navmap in hand, I, singlehandedly, with a little bit of help from Mister Bigshot Pilotman, kept us aloft by spotting landmarks below, only ONCE steering us potentially horribly wrong, which is not so bad, really, when there are 4500 feet of nothing but air below you and an infinite number of things that could go wrong that one also has to concentrate on while trying to spot things like railroads and cell towers.
By the time we touched down, the fact of the matter was that I was already looking forward to the next trip.
Because life isn't about what we can control, it's about what risks we take to really LIVE it that make it worth living. If it takes me hunkering down in a whimpering ball of fear for an hour in order to start to spread my wings and enjoy being aloft and almost alone in the sky except for my best guy then so be it. I'll whimper a while, then straighten out and enjoy the view.
And those are my million words on how I spent my Sunday afternoon. Hope you feel better about yourself because of them, and congratulations for reaching the end!