Got Funny

Fence sitting is not my preferred point of view. I don’t enjoy the teetering sensation, there is something unhealthy about it. Besides, fence sitting is something ragged old crows do. But here I sit, pondering the pros and cons of signing up at the local skydiving school. I am trying to screw up enough courage to get on with something I have been feeling lately is quite possibly important to my well being, despite some of the obvious arguments against it. I am way past midpoint in my life and am also in desperate need of getting out of a rut. That is the beauty of skydiving; after the initial leap, there is a circumstantial passivity that puts much of decision making in the past, the uncomfortable fence sitting is over.

The subject of skydiving brings the best and the worst out in most people’s storytelling and advice-giving. My husband tells one of the milder ugly stories, the one where his unlucky jump partner was practically torn in two by his chute dragging him yards and yards with his legs straddling a farmer’s barbed wire fence. That was my husband’s last jump. He had no desire to continue needlessly risking his own plumbing for a Saturday afternoon thrill. He is probably trying to tell me something else, too, and I have to admit, my fingers are only half jammed in my ears. I am still making up my mind.

The male’s plumbing, depending on how he lands, is not the only one that can be affected by the duress of this particular risk-taking sport. A well respected incontinence support site claims that up to 12% female would-be free fallers drop out of their sky diving training because of stress induced incontinence. This makes a lot of sense when one thinks of how a lowly, unexpected sneeze is enough to make the crimson rise in many women’s cheeks. That abbreviated corridor, the female urethra, can hardly be expected to hold back bladder pressure with 100 % certainty over the years when one takes into consideration how most women’s bodies stretch, sometimes snapping back and sometimes not, to accommodate babies, wild hormone changes and weight fluctuations that make up the feminine life.

Fortunately for me, I am a tough enough old bird to not let the fear of peeing my pants get in the way of having a good time. It looks to me like a good wing suit or jump togs could easily conceal adult diapers and let me have my freedom, if that is indeed the direction I choose to go with this whole skydiving preoccupation. After all, male and female astronauts have no shame about wetting their pants. They even go so far as to share the subject of output quantity by naming their diapers MAGs, which translates as maximum absorbency garments. I suppose NASA has a pride thing about their achieved altitudes and outfits, always bigger and better. That is alright. I will happily settle for the regular adult diapers that belong to the surly bonds of earth.

As I write this, I realize I am tilting more and more toward signing on the dotted line and trying out one of those square-shaped, steerable parachutes. For some reason, I am thinking that if I don’t have a problem with the idea of wearing adult diapers, I may in fact be more committed to taking this plunge than I had earlier realized. Desperation is definitely a critical element of survival and once again, is about to become this middle aged woman’s inspiration.