Bungee Jump

Into the Wilderness: Story 31

Have you ever bungee jumped?

I’m standing on a bridge being locked into crisscrossing, crotch wrenching harnesses. My attendant, whose hair is longer than mine and who uses “fire” in every grammatical form, is diligent, locking and tugging and locking and tugging until I am quite surely locked and tugged. I walk to the edge of the bridge, scrambling over a few wires and bars, which gives me the eerie feeling someone has died here before. Leaning into the great abyss, for that’s what it seems, I’m convinced this is my last moment on earth. Surely these flimsy, bouncy lines will snap or split me in two from the crotch up. I close my eyes. The sounds- the wind sweeping across the bridge, squeaky footsteps from all the sneakers, unintelligible chatter, some laughter, and whoops and yahoos as the fire crowd joyfully dives toward the water. The quiet confidence of my instructor- you got this, it’ll be fire- breaks through. I lean more, and more, until my tippy toes touch the platform. With the barest of nudges, I’m over.

At first I am suspended in space as if an invisible shelf solidified below me. Then I’m freefalling. I hear a sound like air being eked from a ballon-eeeee- before I realize that noise is me. Suddenly, the line tightens and I’m yanked upward as if God has a yo yo, then I’m released and it’s yank and release, yank and release again and again until gravity stretches the line ever downward and the ground crew grab me, unhoist my very sore petard and scream/cheer in my face.

At this very moment, I decide “never again.”

Am I describing my latest trip? Something exciting must have happened because I didn’t publish last week.

Actually, no. I had Covid variant Alpha Omega (that isn’t a real variant, for those fact checking) and that bungee jump was either real or another extremely vivid Covid dream.

I had just had a most wonderful weekend, visiting my college roommate whom I rarely get to see and attending a wine festival in a huge field in Morristown, where Chuck and I also got to see friends we hadn’t seen since before Covid (isn’t it funny how Covid has become a marker of an era like BCE- Before the Common Era- but now BCUgh- Before COVID-19.). After all that fun, I was down for the count.

It was worse than the first time. Like the first time, I got the antivirals. Unlike the first time, they didn’t work quickly. The whole week was in slow motion. I was suspended on the raft of my bed, floating the waves- I was so dizzy, that’s how it felt.

So I did what I never do. I slept. Not the- 8 hours a night and a resty-poo in the afternoon type sleep. Rather the sarcophagus-type sleep. For days on end. And that was both before and WITH antivirals.

After I began the antivirals, I’d get strange bursts of energy. One day I repotted a plant, though it felt like a new form of female sumo wrestling, with lingerie and leaves. I really only knew it happened because of my dirty fingernails when I awoke from my nap. I sleuthed it: ah, ha! Cheryl in a nightgown on the deck with a spade!

Mostly, I slept and I dreamed. One recurring dream- I kid you not- was about high school. I didn’t dream I was back in Jenks, Oklahoma in my drill team uniform chanting J-E-N-K-S, Super Trojan Power (kind of ironic we were called the Trojans). No, that nightmare was real. In my dream, I was my age. All 130ish lbs of me- so now you know how much I weigh- wearing a weird puffed sleeved a la 80s style sun dress (it was ugly, my friends) and too much frosted eye shadow. In the dream, all the pimple-faced boys who never looked my then 102-pound way- and yes, Miss Drill Team Captain that was my accurate weight as was my size 4, 21-inch waistline. When you ordered a size too big, my mother had to take an inch out of the waist. But I digress.

In this recurring dream, these former boys now adjusted their belts below their Coors bloated bellies and asked me out. No thanks. I literally said that in my dream- no thanks- and ordered popcorn from the a sudden pop up carnival with a pop up popcorn booth and icee machine before gathering my pet elephant/donkey/ koala and heading back to my high powered New York City job. I don’t know what that job was because that’s always where this dream morphed into another fever dream.

My husband also got Covid. But he’d had his 5th shot months before and ended up with a day of “man flu,” which meant he sniffled some and slept an entire 24 hours without moving and then rose the next day and went about his daily responsibilities with renewed vigor. Nope, he didn’t have the version of Ef-me-ovid that I ended up with. I’ll be getting that 5th shot as soon as I can.

Never willing to do nothing, I did the following- while sleeping.

*I listened to Michelle Obama’s Becoming on Audible. It’s a great book. I hear.

*I listened to 285hz music, which is called the “healing” frequency. It was sure nice to sleep to.

*I listened to an entire season of true crime podcasts- very interesting I’m sure but please don’t ask for a summary.

*I watched Steven King’s The Mist, which I do remember, and am now convinced is the next plague upon us. Lesson learned: in a suicide pact, don’t kill your family first. Sorry if I’ve ruined the ending for you.

*I awoke at 2am every damn day and surfed Instagram for wisdom of the masses. I learned, for example, that the EU won’t even classify American bread as food- most of its ingredients are banned in the EU because they have zero nutritional value. This is true. Look it up!

*I read exactly 2 pages of a book on folklore before falling asleep.

After seven days, I began to feel well enough to provide these Jack Handy Deep Thoughts to you. The lost week wasn’t too bad, though repeating it any time soon would mean a really lousy immune system- which is unlike my usually warrior-like defense genes. I did enjoy checking out from the world as it currently exists- which sometimes seems like a Covid fever dream. When in history has an Oompa Loompa tossed vigorously (my British friends, don’t read into that word usage) against a warrior princess belting out “we will rock you” by Queen. This is not a political statement. I’m listening to the pundits, though I could be returning to my somatic coma Covid state. Wake me up when it’s all over. 

P.S. It’s called bungee jump because in spite of all the safety preparations, I still fell off the Covid cliff. It felt awful. 5th booster here I come.

P.S.S. And for any companies out there with poor boundary observation, don’t make anyone work while they are sick with Covid- unless you’re ready for some of the insights I’ve shared here.