 |  |
|
Thirty feet is a long way up in the air. Trust me, it is. Ever since I agreed to jump into the Cumberland River from this distance for the flutag, I have become obsessed with trying to eyeball objects that are 30 feet tall and contemplate how it would feel to jump from this distance and slam into water while inside a blimp constructed of PVC pipe. In recent days friends have found me on bar patios staring off into the dark night skies in deep contemplation.
"What are you looking at?" they'll ask.
"Trying to gauge how high 30 feet is," I'll say. Then I drag them into my 30-foot obsession. Turns out asking someone in a city how high 30 feet is, is guaranteed to get you such a variety of opinions you'd think you asked about the 2008 presidential candidates' positions on immigration. No one has any idea what the correct answer is although everyone has an opinion.
Also, everyone has a friend who went cliff-diving from 8,436 feet somewhere in the Andes and only bruised their left heel. So they say 30 feet is nothing to be concerned about.
"You'll be fine," they say. At least they say this if they aren't either my wife or my mom.
That's because my wife and my mom have entered into a cabal to convince me my death is imminent. Recently, while looking at a house with my wife that was way too expensive for us to afford, I found myself on the second floor of a balcony looking out into an expansive vista as twilight advanced across the rolling Tennessee hills. "Some view, isn't it," said the owner of the home.
"How high is this," I asked, ignoring his question/bragging.
"About 24 feet," the owner said. I nodded. Beneath me I felt my knees shake. We were way up into the sky. It seemed possible I could reach out and touch the North Star.
Before I could ask any other questions, my wife appeared, shaking her head over my right shoulder, her eyes fierce as pieces of bamboo being shoved under my cuticles. That's when I came to realize for the first time that 30 feet is a long way in the air.
Before that, I didn't think 30 feet was very high. Primarily because I was using myself as my measuring stick. I'm 6-feet tall. So four more versions of myself stacked, one on top of the other, would add up to 30 feet. This seems much less frightening.
When I got tired of imagining that I would think about 30 feet as the length of a first down in a football game. Just 10 yards. Only a single first down. This comforted me as I lay awake at night in my bed contemplating my death in the fetid Cumberland River.
At least it did until after we visited the house we couldn't afford and both looked down side-by-side from 24 feet. "You're a fool," my wife said. Then later that night while we were lying in bed she turned to me and said, "Should we get your sperm frozen?"
ClayNation Canon No. 839: Any voluntary event that requires you to contemplate freezing your sperm is one you probably shouldn't consider.
|
|
| Hand drawn sketch of the CBS SportsLine.com/SPiN/ClayNation Flugtag blimp. |
"If you get paralyzed you'll never be able to have sex again," she'll say. Or, more frequently, "We need to take you to the Sportsplex (a local Nashville pool with a high dive) so you can practice jumping."
My mom has taken up the latter criticism as well. Recently she e-mailed to inform me, "You aren't good at jumping; you are not an athlete, Clay." True. Only I'm not very good at jumping into the sky. Jumping away from the sky? Well, any idiot can be good at that. That's not really jumping; it's called falling. And I'm a world class athlete when it comes to falling.
Also, I don't understand the logic in being bad at falling. My wife and my mom want me to practice falling off the high-dive into a pool. But if I'm really bad at this, wouldn't this make me even more likely to get injured? This is like saying to someone, you aren't very good at getting tackled, let's have Brian Urlacher tackle you so you get better at getting tackled. No thanks.
Even supposing I'm not very good at falling from tall distances into a pool, how does it help me to do it more often? Even more importantly, how are some people better at falling feet-first into water than others?
All of these arguments are far too logical for my wife and mother. It has gotten to the point where I don't even want to leave them alone. I know what they are going to talk about as soon as I return ... paralysis and death.
Get the two of them started and they go back and forth assisting one another like Stockton and Malone. I stand helpless before them until I beat my retreat into the night, where I stand and scrutinize every building around me.
|
|
| Do you think this PVC-blimp will fly? |
Yet each night when I go to bed I awake terrified that I'm going to see my wife holding a Dixie cup beside me. "Time to freeze your sperm," she'll say.
I told my brother-in-law about my fears. He was silent on the other end of the phone for a few seconds. I expected him to encourage me somehow. Instead, he was brutally honest.
"My wife is talking about doubling my life insurance," he said. Then we were both lost in silent contemplation. Already the Flugtag was only 10 days away.
"I don't even have any life insurance," I said.
"Hmm," said Jim. "Might want to rethink that one."