I don’t intend to live long. 

There’s an old joke, “What’s the best way to make God laugh?  Make a plan.”  I doubt that I will be lucky enough to be blessed with a timely demise.  Not that I really have a strong suicidal urge (not compared to the next seriously depressed person).  I simply don’t like the idea of being old and infirmed, embarrassingly relying on my loved ones to take care of me while I slowly lose my physical and mental faculties.

The reason for this semi-self-destructive diatribe is that I believe I suffered what could be a classic mid-life crisis at the age of 18.  I had been accepted to college and was preparing to go there in September.  But that summer, I decided to dip my toes into the craziness and try to revive my long slumbering barbaric yawp.

My first order of business?  Get a tattoo.  I’m just that original, folks.  Tattoos have become utterly mundane and commonplace amongst my generation.  It feels more and more like it's the minority in my age group that hasn’t lent their flesh to the artistic expression of the needle.  But for me, at that time, it was a way to do something that was crazy, seedy, and verboten; an inky badge of defiance and stupidity that I could proudly bare to others when I felt like it.  I got a band around my ankle, nothing that really spoke to my individuality or character, but something that just looked cool.  Well, it would’ve looked cool. 

Unfortunately, as I found out that day in the chair of the tattoo parlor, I have very thin blood.  This was conveyed to me by the fact that the tattoo artist kept asking me, “Have you been drinking?  Taken any aspirin?  There’s just a lot of blood here, that’s all.”  The tattoos I’ve seen applied to others since then usually require one piece of paper towel to dab away a few spots of blood that come up.  For my trip, the artist needed approximately 5 different pieces of paper towel, creating a grisly monument to my feeble blood.  This led to my tattoo appearing quite faded and repeated questioning from others about why said tattoo was faded.  On the ride home, I passed out from the blood loss, waking up only to stumble into my bed where I would wake up in sheets caked in stale blood from my ankle. 

But the tattoo remains on my ankle, a testament to a moment where I just wanted to do something reckless and (in my naïve eyes) unique in order to affirm that I was alive.  However, it should be noted for anyone interested in getting a tattoo that they are terribly addictive.  I’ve since gotten two others (ironically the infinity symbol on my chest and the Japanese khanji for “Life” on my back) and I’m always thinking about getting more.  So it’s my act of youthful defiance that just keeps on giving.

My second act in the summer of my mid-life crisis was a little more unique and more life-affirming-by-putting-it-in-jeopardy: skydiving.  When a friend of a friend informed us that he was going skydiving with a bunch of buddies the next day, and that my friend and I should come along, we immediately agreed and prepared to leave the next morning (not before I blew a tire and almost wrecked the Ford Taurus, thereby assuring my death to be a much more imminent reality unless I quickly and secretly got it repaired before my parents noticed).  In most states, the first time one jumps out of a plane, he has to go in tandem with an instructor strapped on his back with the parachute.  Perhaps this isn’t true everywhere, or if you’re Keanu Reeves in Point Break, but it’s certainly the case when we went.  A burly thrillseeker (seemingly bored with the whole affair and reading a magazine before our sudden disembarkation) was attached to my back as we slowly made our way to the door.  And I know this will sound like bullshit macho posturing, but it definitely cut down on the fear such an act would inspire.

I was a little nervous before I got on the plane, but as soon as it took off, I knew I would have to jump.  While plummeting to my death isn’t the most appealing activity, it’s nothing compared to the horribly awkward and inappropriate conversation I would be forced to engage in with the pilot if I didn’t jump.  “So…you do this often or what?  Do you guys have any magazines?  Perhaps a snack?”  There was simply no alternative but to jump.

Once we were in the air, and I was resigned to my fate, I was feeling more curious than anything else.  What would all of that air feel like in my face?  Would I somehow screw up jumping out of the door and look like an ass in front of a group of complete strangers?  The whole time I was constantly aware of the intimacy produced by having a man stuck on your back.  I never even got the guy’s name.  Maybe Dave?  Although I feel like all skydivers are named Dave or Matt, so I clearly don’t know.  But the time drew near and I sauntered up to the door with Dave/Matt.  I grew a tad disconcerted when the guy in front of me wouldn’t jump, clutching onto the door with all of his might.  But once I saw his tandem partner punch away at the forearm until both tumbled out, I knew that I had to jump—if only to avoid the humiliation and the beating.

And then I was airborne.  More precisely, I was falling with a man on my back and a video camera in my face.  But it felt great.  I wasn’t really scared, like I said, mainly because there was a guy on me.  I felt like not only is this guy a professional, but he also doesn’t really want to die, so he has a much more vested interest in not plunging to his doom.  The wind rushed in my hair, in my mouth, the ground rushing up to me while I felt completely unfettered and like a wayward superhero in his first flying lesson.  It was exhilarating to be that high up, free from everyone and every care.  When skydiving, there’s no time to be neurotic.  You’re concentrating on the descent, the sensation, and the ground, so you don’t have the ability to think about college life or what you’re going to do with your future.  The immediacy of the action pushes everything else out of your mind.

I will say, however, that when they pull the rip chord there is such a violent yank about the groin, it’s amazing that so many men enjoy this.  It’s like a pair of angels giving you the most violent wedgie ever experienced.  Again, the immediacy takes away from normal mental processes, because I wasn’t reflecting, “Well, we’re not going to die” but instead, “Goodbye, procreation!” 

We lazily glided about in the air towards the barren patch of landing zone, I had a sense of coming down back into my life.  I had been able to step out of my world, walking away from all of the humiliations and awkwardness.  I was completely in the moment.  But as the ground got closer and closer, I began thinking more and more about my life, my plans, what was I going to do later that night, was I hungry, did I have to hang out with these kids for much longer, etc.

The whole affair ended the ONLY way it possibly could as long as I was involved: a botched landing.  I put my feet up too soon or down too early or something that clearly demonstrated my lack of ability, stumbling until I fell headfirst into the dirt while my tandem partner quietly swore under his breath.  As I mentioned, the whole thing was captured on video tape, a lot of me descending rapidly, waving to the camera, giving a thumbs up and the metal horns.  It looks horribly stupid, but to be fair I was severely limited up there.  There aren’t that many hand gestures you can give, or cool stunts to try out when there’s a man strapped to you.  I mean, I guess I could’ve tried the OK sign or the middle finger, but neither really seemed appropriate given the altitude.  I still have the video, and it’s become a perennial favorite of my friends, who like to gather and laugh as I soar from the plane, my flight precisely cued to Pearl Jam’s “Evenflow.”  One of my ultimate life-affirming acts and display of manliness has now been reduced to a running joke and source of further humiliation.

But seriously, when that parachute deploys, it’s a real pain in the balls.