Falling in love is a lot like skydiving.

Falling in love is a lot like skydiving.

First you hear about other people doing it. Seems crazy. Then one of your friends does it. Now it’s real. They tell you how exhilarating it was. You’re curious. Your mind starts to open to it.

Opportunity arrives.

The logistics finally line up. You know you want to do it, if only to be able to tell the story. You’re in the car. It’s happening. There’s still this comfort in knowing it’s not too late to bail, though. You’re gearing up. Last chance. But you keep going, thrill and panic weaving an intricate dance that smothers the last of your free will.

Takeoff.

The tension is palpable. You know what’s about to happen. Things are escalating.

It’s almost time…

13000 feet. You’re face to face with the unknown. You muse that there’s probably an hourglass out there somewhere that encodes the gravity stretched out before you. It’d be embarrassing to turn back now.

A leap of faith.

Weightlessness. You’re transported through a moment and an eternity. You are the world, the end and the beginning. You take a selfie.

FWOOP.

Just like that, the free fall is over. You’re gliding over geography, taking it all in, pointing out landmarks and laughing about everywhere you’ve been and scouting picnic spots for another day.

Touchdown.

The ground kisses your feet in bittersweet reunion. Perspective returns. All those memories and plans seem distant and uncertain. Someone is telling you about where to go to return your gear and “check out”. Responsibility starts trickling back in. You test your feet, remember how to move again.

Left, right, repeat.

Seven years later, you’re flying again, but not in one of those planes you can jump out of. Gravity catches your eye, from the other side of the room this time. You recognize it instantly, but urgently turn away.

Not today.

Falling in love is a lot like skydiving, except I don’t wanna go skydiving again.