High Anxiety

I hate downhills. It's the story of my life. Whether I'm on a dirtbike or a snowmobile, skis or a sled, put me at the top of a hill and push, and I start screaming like a child who has just found out he's headed to Disneyland. But not in a good way.

I suppose some psycho-babble-ologist would say I have control issues. After all, in most of those situations, a person flying down the side of a mountain doesn't have a lot of control. And probably wants control. But I would argue that it's really more about...well, dying. Downhill=fast=painful crash=well, you can finish that equation.

But lately, I've been a little more than facinated with high places. Notice the distinction: I still hate downhills, but I don't mind the view from way up yonder. Our new home is at the top of a big downhill, and I don't like many things better than just sitting outside and looking.

This summer we ventured to a few 8,000 ft. peaks and were rewarded with spectacular views. I've been hankering for a trip to something higher. I think Everest is probably outside of my comfort zone (someone might give me a push, and that would be a super scary downhill). But maybe Pike's Peak or something in the 13,000 ft range. I could do that.

Perhaps it's age and relativity. When I was young, I was bigger than my body (to steal from John Mayer). I was so important to myself, and that outweighed everything around me. "Sure, yeah, that's a high mountain, a beautiful view," I would think.

But now, I am, if anything, smaller than my body (and I'm not even accounting for the middle age spread). The world seems so big to me, the universe unimaginable. I am stifled by the thought of everyone and everything existing at the same time. I am in awe of the view.