I’m not a depressed person. I’m not even sad about my fate. I accepted it a long time ago.
Most people live their lives as if they’ll live until they’re one hundred years old. They plan their careers and their families and their vacations and their futures as if they’ll be around for all of it. But my thoughts work differently than most people’s, knowing that I don’t have the option to pretend I’ll live until I’m 100 years old. Because I won’t. Based on the current state of my health, I’ll be lucky to live another ten years. And that’s precisely why I think about death every minute of every hour of every day of my life.
Until today.
Until the moment I jumped out of the plane and I looked down on an Earth that seemed so insignificant that I couldn’t help but laugh. And I couldn’t stop laughing. The entire time we were falling, I laughed hysterically until I started crying because the experience was beautiful and exhilarating and far exceeded my expectations. The entire time I was plummeting toward the earth at over one hundred miles per hour, I didn’t once think about death. I could only think of how lucky I was to be able to feel that alive.
Jake’s words kept repeating in my head as I was pushing against the wind. “This is living!”
He’s right. This is the most I’ve ever lived, and I want to do it again. We’ve only been on the ground for all of a minute. Jake’s landing was impeccable, but I’m still harnessed to him and we’re sitting on the ground, my feet out in front of me as I try to catch my breath. I appreciate that he’s given me a quiet moment to soak it all in.
He begins to unlatch us and stands up. I’m still sitting when he walks around in front of me and blocks the sun with his height. I look at him and am slightly embarrassed that I’m still crying, but not enough to try to hide it.
“Well?” he says, holding out his hand. “How was it?”
I take his hand, and he pulls me up as I use my other hand to wipe the tears away from my cheeks. I sniff and then laugh. “I want to do it again.”
He laughs. “Right now?”
I nod vigorously. “Yeah. That was incredible. Can we do it again?”
He shakes his head. “The plane is booked for the rest of the afternoon. But I can put you on the schedule for my next day off.”
I smile. “I would love that.”
Jake helps me remove my harness, and I hand him my helmet and goggles. We go inside and I change out of my gear. When I make it back to the front counter, Jake has printed out pictures and downloaded a video of the skydive for me.
“I sent it to the email address you have on file,” he says, handing me a folder with the pictures inside it. “Is the address on your form your correct home address?”
I nod. “Yeah. Should I be expecting something in the mail?”
He glances up from the computer and smiles at me. “No, but you can expect me at your front door tonight at seven.”
Oh. He was serious about celebrating tonight. Okay, then. I just got super nervous all of a sudden. I don’t react, though. I smile at him and say, “Will this be a casual or formal celebration?”
He laughs. “I could make a reservation somewhere, but honestly, I’m more of a pizza and beer kind of guy. Or burgers or tacos or anything that doesn’t require me to wear a tie.”
I smile, relieved. “Perfect,” I say, backing away from the counter. “See you at seven. Try not to be late.”
I turn and walk toward the door, but before I exit, he says, “I won’t be late. In fact, I want to show up early.”
???
Ridge and I dated for so long, that I don’t even remember the last time I’ve stressed over what to wear on a date. Aside from his infatuation with front-clasping bras, I don’t even think Ridge paid attention to what underwear I wore. But here I am, digging through my dresser, trying to search for anything that matches or doesn’t have holes or isn’t tailored to fit a grandmother.
I can’t believe I don’t have any cute panties.
I open my bottom drawer full of stuff that, for whatever reason, I’d convinced myself I’d never wear. I sift through unmatched socks and gag-gift crotchless panties until I come across something that makes me forget about my search altogether.
It’s a folded sheet of paper. I don’t have to open it to know what it is, but I walk to my bed and open it anyway. I sit and stare at the list I started writing over ten years ago, back when I was only fourteen.
It’s a bucket list of sorts, although back then I didn’t know what the term “bucket list” meant. Which is why I titled it, “Things I want to do before I turn eighteen.” The before I turn eighteen part of the title is marked out because I spent my eighteenth birthday in the hospital. When I got home, I was bitter at the whole world, and that I hadn’t marked anything off my list. So I scribbled out the end of the title and changed it to, “Things I want to do. Maybe one of these days…”