Last night I had a dream.
Not a Martin Luther King type of world-changing dream.
A normal Club Duvet type dream.
And no, not one of THOSE either.
Mind. Gutter. Out.
I dreamt I went skydiving.
It was fantastic.
The sun was going down and the sky was a brilliant palette of pink and orange with the great scarlet orb sinking below the horizon.
From the free fall to the slow drifting down to the ground, it was as perfect as it could be.
I even had a really nice soundtrack playing on my iPod. (This is strange, because as an Apple-phobe, I don’t own an iPod.)
I landed with the grace of Anna Pavlova. (Hey, it’s my dream. I can be graceful in my dream.)
I awoke with a burning desire to book a tandem skydive.
Then my rational mind kicked in: “Are you out of your ever-loving mind? You want to pay someone to throw you out of a perfectly good aeroplane?”
I let my limbic area answer: “The dream is a sign, I should throw caution to the wind and jump.”
Rational answered: “You realise they will probably have to pry your cold dead fingers off the plane to throw you out?”
Limbic: “I can always take a Xanax beforehand.”
Rational: “If you need to take a Xanax, don’t do it. You’ll probably vomit on the hot, buff young guy you’re strapped to. Or pee in your pants.”
Limbic: “I won’t eat beforehand and I can always wear a Be-Sure.”
Rational: “Do you know what happens to skydivers if they collide in mid-air?”
Limbic: “No.”
Rational: “They explode like water balloons, only with blood. Lots of blood.”
Limbic: “You are trying to scare me. It won’t work.”
Rational: “You will scream for your Mommy. And they will catch it on video and put it on YouTube so the world can laugh”
Limbic: “Point taken.”
It seems my limbic brain suffers from Must Have The Last Word Syndrome. It keeps hassling me to book the skydive anyway.
Because it is not like I’m not petrified of heights or anything.
The Blurred Line 