The Ambiguously Camel-Toed Duo

Warning: This may or may not be a metaphysical Stuart Smalley-type post involving, but not limited to, wings, direction, traffic cones and my testicals, imaginary and ovarian.

I went hang gliding. And when I say hang gliding I mean the pussy introductory kind of hang gliding off a low-slung sand dune with an instructor barely letting go. Still, I flew, and I was not afraid. Here is what I am afraid of: wasting away from a terrible disease, losing mental and/or physical capacity, drowning, going pee at midnight and accidentally staring in the bathroom mirror while I involuntarily chant Bloody Mary over and over and over with the window cracked open one inch, sharks, pooping my pants in public, not having any money, the dark, bad breath, black widows.

Here is what I am apparently not afraid of: flying.

I used to have flying dreams when I was a kid. Of course nothing is more boring than listening to other people's dreams, but I will tell you this: someone was always chasing me and all I had to do was concentrate to lift off. Take off, swoop, soar, glide, and it always felt completely natural, as if I always knew how to fly. Then something happened, I don't know what and I don't know when, but I stopped having flying dreams. Maybe people stopped chasing me or I knew I could turn around or run. Maybe I grew up, got grounded, maybe I grew afraid. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Last week I was afraid. Of this and that, running from the other. We were visiting my brother when I told them that I was looking for a sign. What to do? Yes or no? Turn around? Or run? My stomach in knots barely able to eat. Andy suggested we go out to the desert and do 'shrooms like that one episode of Entourage, but instead we ate Subway sandwiches and went hang gliding.

Those three traffic cones on the beach? That's your goal. Don't take your eyes off of them. Don't grip the handle. Don't try to fight the wind. Don't steer. In fact, you fly better if you just let go. Seriously. Let. Go. This is what the instructor told me and so I listened even though I did not get mushrooms on my 6" Veggie. (It was either that or the following gem from "Despicable Me": You will not cry, or sneeze or barf or fart! And while those words also sounded prophetic, I chose to get my sign from someone non-animated.)
I like to think this picture illustrates me cupping my balls in that macho way that men have to emphasize a point.

Because then? I flew.