Reboot Your Life Page 3

  A teacher during the day, I spent my leisure time knitting and reading. My children were grown and had lives of their own, so that challenge was over. My life had become uneventful.

  I needed to take a leap. I needed to do something risky.

  There was something that attracted and terrified me at the same time. My former father-in-law had spent his middle-aged years participating on a competitive skydiving team. Looking at photos or hearing him tell stories about his competitions, I would always say to myself, “Someday.”

  Sadly, it took a colleague’s death to spur me into action. A fellow teacher — still in her thirties — died after waging a nasty battle with breast cancer. With what should have been a full life ahead of her, she left behind a husband and young children. I kept thinking that someday I would summon enough courage to go skydiving, but what if I ran out of somedays before I got the chance to do it?

  Before I could change my mind, I called and scheduled my jump for the next Saturday. I could hardly refrain from squealing, the result of equal parts excitement and terror.

  Driving the hour to the skydiving center, I felt like I might be driving to my death. Certainly, thousands and thousands of people safely skydived, but there were enough deaths that this was considered a dangerous sport. Before they even started the training, the skydiving staff had me fill out a six-page form; each place I initialed seemed to say, “If your parachute doesn’t open, it’s not our fault. If you break a leg when you land, it’s not our fault. If you die, it’s not our fault.” I stopped reading the form and blindly initialed the places that were highlighted. I didn’t want any more reminders about how risky this was.

  After I watched a video about what the jump was going to be like, I worked one-on-one with Brian, my instructor. My first jump would be a tandem jump, which meant I would have my instructor strapped to me.

  With his help, I learned that once I leaped out of the plane, I’d have to arch my back and put my arms out. Brian showed me a couple of different landing options, but assured me that he would make that decision when we were a few feet away from the ground. He explained that there would be a mix of veteran jumpers and beginners like me in the plane, but the experienced divers would go first.

  “Each time a jumper goes, we’ll scoot closer to the back end of the bench. I won’t hook us together until right before it’s our turn.” Brian helped me into a flight suit. Everyone was loaded into the plane, and we headed toward the clouds.

  It only took a matter of minutes to reach the needed elevation, but my panic level rose faster than that plane. The inside of the airplane got hot — at least it felt that way to me. It was as if I was in an oven and the oven had wings. My heart beat so fast it felt like it was going to thump its way out of my chest. My screams hadn’t escaped from my throat yet, but it was only a matter of time.

  As the veteran jumpers started stepping off the bench and leaping out into the sky, I had to wait my turn. But I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to wait. I wanted to jump out. Right then. Immediately. And I didn’t care if my instructor was hooked onto me or not.

  I bit down to keep from screaming. I managed to keep my seat planted firmly on the bench until it was our time to jump. Brian, behind me, hooked my harness to his and we got up.

  My diving teacher walked to the gaping opening on confident legs. My legs, however, felt like they were made of rubber. A minute earlier, I was ready to leap out on my own. Now I was not so sure this was a smart thing to do.

  The moment before we leaped out into the blue sky, the exhilaration that coursed through my veins was worth it. Above me was sky. Below me was sky. It was the oddest — and most exciting — experience of my life.

  When the two of us leaped out, it felt like we were totally free.

  I won’t lie. When Brian indicated it was time to pull the cord, I was relieved when the chute opened. With the nylon canopy above us, I figured I might end up with a broken leg but at least I didn’t have to worry about plummeting to the ground and getting squashed like an egg.

  We finally returned to the ground and gathered the armfuls of parachute. My adrenaline was still pumping through my veins. And I knew. I knew. My life would never be the same. Even as we walked back to the skydiving center, I still felt thousands of miles high.

  I no longer plod through life, all because I made that one leap.

  ~Sioux Roslawski

  Winters of Solace

  You cannot be lonely if you like the person you’re alone with.

  ~Wayne Dyer

  “I haven’t skied much,” my friend Nyna said. “So I’m not up for spending a weekend in the mountains, especially when it takes five hours to get there.”

  “But you can’t improve without practice,” I said.

  “I wish I wanted to go, but I don’t. I’d rather stay home, go hiking.”

  “Hiking?”

  I pictured the rush of sliding down the slopes and weaving between pine trees at Mammoth Mountain, my favorite resort. Hiking couldn’t compare to my winter playground.

  “Let’s conquer a new trail,” Nyna said.

  “Thanks, but I’m sticking with snowboarding. I just need to find someone to tag along.”

  I hung up and walked into the garage to survey my gear. My one-year-old snowboard with perfectly white bindings rested against the wall. The helmet I’d purchased after smacking my head on the ice during a magnificent crash leaned against the base of the board as though napping. The gear hadn’t been used since I’d gone boarding with my last boyfriend the year before. He’d convinced me to try the sport and helped me learn to turn on the snow.

  Now, a season later, I did a mental scan of friends for possible companions. Two people were avid skiers but had moved to Colorado. Another friend wanted to snowboard if she could ever afford it. The rest weren’t interested in winter sports.

  I was starting to feel lonely even though I had been feeling content about being single again. I needed to do something, figure out how to get on the mountain without my friends, otherwise I’d backslide to a dark place.

  I opened my computer. A search revealed a local ski club. Great! That would be easy. Then I looked at the price per trip. Too much.

  What about an informal group who carpooled and hung out on the mountain? I found one of those, too, but the members seemed a lot older and were married.

  My research options exhausted, I walked to the kitchen to make hot cocoa. As I reached for a mug, the answer to my dilemma slapped me in the face like a brisk breeze on a winter day.

  I should go by myself.

  By myself? But I could barely snowboard and didn’t know the mountain well.

  Despite my counterarguments, the idea took shape with each marshmallow I dropped in the cocoa. Leave early in the morning. Plop. Stay at a hostel. Plop. Board on groomed trails. Plop.

  By nightfall my car was loaded. Two days later I started my first solo snowboarding adventure. By eleven that day I sat next to a couple on a ski lift.

  “Are you from Mammoth?” she asked.

  “Anaheim,” I said.

  “Do you and your friends come here often?” he asked.

  “I came by myself,” I said.

  “Alone?” Her eyes grew wide, like I said I had twelve fingers.

  “Alone.”

  “Good for you,” he said. “Better to come on your own than not at all.”

  I nodded. A grin appeared under my ski mask. Maybe I could do this.

  Each lift ride resulted in more affirmation of my solo journey. Most people admired my adventurous spirit and wished they were up for doing the same.

  The five-hour drive home whizzed by as I contemplated future snowboarding trips. I schemed which weekends I’d go, the time I’d leave, which parts of the mountain I’d investigate, where I’d stay. When I pulled into my garage, my calendar for the season was filled with plans and excitement.

  Come May, I returned my snowboard to the garage and said farewell until the following season. With e
ach year I got better at snowboarding and planning my trips. I even learned to enjoy the drive.

  Eight years after my first solo trip I walked into a Mammoth lodge for a lunch break. The place was packed, so I shared a table with an older man.

  “Need room for your friends?” he asked.

  “I’m by myself,” I said.

  “Really? You should join my group.” He gestured to the empty chairs on his end of the table. “They’re not here yet, but they’re a great bunch.” He extended a hand. “I’m George.”

  “Heather. Thanks, but I’m going to head out soon.”

  By the time my helmet was in place and my coat was zipped up, his friends still hadn’t arrived.

  “Have fun,” he said. “See you out there.”

  I smiled at his kindness, but knew I’d never see him again. The mountain was too large to run into the same person twice.

  The next day I went to a restaurant after my last run. As I sat by the fireplace and enjoyed the mountain view George walked by.

  “Hey there,” he said.

  “Hi,” I said, shocked he’d been right about seeing each other again.

  “Ever been to the hot springs?”

  “No.”

  “Want to join us tonight?”

  I weighed the pros and cons of agreeing to hang out with a stranger and his alleged friends who I had yet to meet. He did seem sincere, though, and the springs were a public place. If I drove on my own and made sure others were there it should be safe.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Great. See you there at five.”

  The sunset view from the hot springs was breathtaking. As the last glint of light disappeared, I climbed out of the rock-lined water, ready to take my pruned skin back to my hotel room.

  “Want to ski with us tomorrow?” George asked.

  “We’ll be doing some runs from the top before it gets too warm,” one of his friends said.

  George had been right again. His friends were a great bunch, so I agreed to board with them. Their skill level far exceeded mine, but they were encouraging, not cocky. They helped me trust my skills and try slopes I’d avoided by myself. It made for a phenomenal day, so we decided to meet at Mammoth again two weeks later.

  At the end of our next weekend on the slopes George and I sat in a lodge waiting for the others. He cocked his head to the side and smiled.

  “You need to meet my friend Dale,” he said. “You’d like him.”

  “Sure,” I said, figuring he’d never set us up, like the dozens of other people who’d said the same thing before.

  “Excellent. I’ll make it happen.”

  Six weeks later Dale and I went on our first date. Six months later we were engaged. Six months after that we were married. As I look back now I’m thankful to Nyna for not wanting to go snowboarding because it made me learn to be okay with doing things by myself, and led me down the slope to my husband.

  ~Heather Zuber-Harshman

  Just in Time

  By changing nothing, nothing changes.

  ~Tony Robbins

  “You are one of those ‘Just in Case’ kind of people.”

  “What the heck does that mean?” I asked her, and she said it meant the opposite of a ‘Just in Time’ kind of person. “Which are you?” I wondered out loud and immediately wished I hadn’t.

  “Oh, I’m a ‘Just in Time’ kind of gal,” she said with that smirk on her face. Why did I even try to be friends with her? She always made me feel like a fool. Why did I meet her every Friday after work for coffee just so I could feel bad?

  “How do you know what kind of person I am? I might be a closet ‘Just in Time’ kind of person and you don’t know it.” I tried to lighten things up a bit.

  “Oh, I’ll bet you have an umbrella in the bottom of that huge purse you carry all the time.” She eyed my purse with disgust.

  “So what if I do? What if it rains? You’ll be the first one to get under my umbrella because there is no way you have one in that little change purse you carry.” I was not going to let her win this one.

  “You carry that umbrella ‘Just in Case’, and I only carry one if it is raining. See the difference? It’s the way you are. You carry way too much baggage. It might even be the reason you have a weight problem.”

  That did it. How could anyone be so mean? I left. I could hardly wait to get home, home where I would not have to think about what kind of person I was.

  I stared at the door of my apartment when I got home. The note I left for the mailman was still stuck on the mailbox. “I am expecting a parcel. If it arrives, please put it in the plastic bag, inside the box, in case it rains.” I opened the door, reached over, grabbed the note off the box and slammed the door. Could she be right? Was I a boring “Just in Case” kind of person?

  When I opened the refrigerator to get a drink, I noticed the rows of pickles and mustards and three kinds of “Just in Case” juices. I sat at the kitchen table and glared at my cupboards full of dishes, pots, pans, and at least fifty cookbooks that I had “just in case.” Just in case what?” In case he came back to me? In case I met someone new? In case I ever found someone to love and cook for again?

  I reached for a hanger to hang up my coat. What for? In case someone drops by? In case someone might think I was a less than perfect housekeeper? I was more pathetic than I thought.

  Wandering through the apartment, I realized I was a “Just in Case” kind of person. The bed. Oh the bed. I had a king sized bed. Me, alone, in a king sized bed, for what? “Just in Case,” that’s why.

  My closet was full of three sizes of clothes. One size fit me, then there was one size smaller, and one size larger. That’s when I lost it. I grabbed an extra large plastic bag. Of course there were small, medium, and large to choose from. I chose the extra large plastic bag and started to throw out the small and large sized clothes. I kept holding dresses, shirts and skirts up to me. They were already out of style and they never really looked that good. They were all safe clothes; the colours went with everything, and the styles were as plain as unbuttered toast. One jacket could go with any skirt, and any shirt could go with all the pants. When did this happen to me?

  I sat on the floor of my bedroom sorting shoes. I had had some for ten years and never wore them. Why? Because I might need them “just in case.”

  It was after midnight when I finished loading the car. The Goodwill was the first stop early in the morning, then the second stop was the park for a run. The rain couldn’t stop me. Shopping works in all kinds of weather too. I bought clothes in my favourite colors and got my hair cut in the style I’d always wanted but was too afraid to try. It was late and I was hungry, so I stopped at the neighbourhood bar for something to eat just in time for the evening hockey game. The place was packed so I looked around for a place to sit. Arriving anywhere without a reservation was not my style. When a man offered to share his booth with me I hesitated: I couldn’t just sit down with a total stranger. Could I? I did.

  He was new in town but the movers wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow. He just thought he’d drive around his new neighbourhood and see how it looked at night. We talked until the game was over and noticed the bar was clearing out.

  I smiled when I arrived home and threw the parcels on the bed. I decided I’d keep my king sized bed. Just in case.

  ~P. Avice Carr

  The Dry Truth

  Desire is the starting point of all achievement, not a hope, not a wish, but a keen pulsating desire which transcends everything.

  ~Napoleon Hill

  At twenty years old I married my husband, Bill. We were young and as compatible as rum and Coke, which was my drink of choice, one I began abusing on a regular basis. I began to notice that, while other friends would have a few drinks on the weekend, we were imbibing on an almost nightly basis.

  One night I remember walking through our apartment complex, noticing how other apartments were decorated so comfy and cozy. Through opened blinds I could see walls ado
rned with family photos and knickknacks on shelves that gave a warm, homey feel.

  This was in sharp contrast to our meagerly decorated apartment where a lone poster of Rocky Balboa hung on the front room wall. This was the late 1970s.

  Between the drinking and the hangovers I’d try to convince myself that someday I too would have a beautiful home and a family — which is really all I ever wanted. Then one night in the shadow of my buzzed behavior a small voice whispered: “Nothing changes if nothing changes.”

  Although I wasn’t fully heeding the message I knew that for things to change it would have to start with me.

  Nothing changes if nothing changes. That concept literally changed my life.

  I was twenty-three years old and into the third day of my sobriety when I woke up in the wee hours of that September morning. I hadn’t slept well and woke up feeling an anxiety attack about to strike.

  Walking over to the kitchen sink I looked out the window as the sun began to rise above the darkened sky. I stood there taking in the quiet and tranquil sight, and with the serenity came the self-assurance that I was going to be all right.

  Another amazing outcome was that my husband also quit drinking completely — cold turkey like me. The only thing that stayed the same was the love we felt for each other.

  Recently Bill and I celebrated thirty-seven years of marriage — thirty-four of those years happily sober. We are the proud grandparents of four grandchildren, with our fifth due on Bill’s birthday.

  As I write this I am sitting in the new home Bill and I built ten years ago. The walls are covered with framed photos that tell the history of our family.

  In my home office the lettered sentiment above the doorway reads our truth: “Love Is All That Matters.”

  In the dining room hangs a framed collage of wedding photos from both our daughters’ weddings. The sentiment: “Family Is A Gift That Lasts Forever” is etched above the happy smiles and it speaks to the thoughts of my heart, the meaning more precious than gold to me.

  Our beautiful home and all its inspiration is a far cry from that lifetime ago when we lived in that apartment with a Rocky poster on the wall.