Hating my boyfriend
I buy organic. He lives off Velveeta.
I roam bookstores for hours. He kills hookers on Grand Theft Auto.
I max out my Gap card. He thinks one pair of shoes works for everything.
Just about the only thing that my boyfriend and I have in common is skydiving.
That's why now -- as he's away in California for the longest time we've ever been apart -- I'm not sad. I'm not pining for him. I'm just fucking jealous.
Because he's at Perris Valley, one of the greatest dropzones in the world, and he's studying with Jim Slaton, one of the greatest canopy pilots in the world.
Meanwhile I'm at home, WATCHING SKYDIVING VIDEOS instead of ACTUALLY SKYDIVING. Bah.
Plus, Boyfriend just got sponsored by this parachute company and will be getting a brand-new, custom-made Xaos 27 canopy for free. That's like winning the skydiving lottery.
Stupid boyfriend and his mad skills.
See, I have this different theory. I think things should be the exact opposite. I should be sponsored by some company -- any company -- because I'm NOT very good.
Really, who needs sponsorship more -- a great skydiver? Or a crappy one?
It's kind of like my theory about drinking and other related vices. What do germs want -- a healthy body? Or a sick one? Healthy, right? So I might as well drink and smoke and keep my body as crappy as possible so that the germs won't want me.
When you think about it, my theory makes perfect sense. Because I'm not a great skydiver, I'm more dedicated and more diligent than the really skilled jumpers. I'm out at the dropzone every weekend. I'm packing as fast as I can. I'm getting on every load possible. Heck, I'm even living on my old emergency stash of Y2K canned peas so I can spend more money on skydiving.
In a perfect world, I would be adopted by a show called "Really Extreme Makeover: From Average Skydiver to AWESOME." I would be given brand new gear, a full-time coaching staff and my own plane that would zip me to altitude all day, every day.
But noooo. Instead I'll have to do things my boyfriend's way. Practice.
HATE HIM.
I roam bookstores for hours. He kills hookers on Grand Theft Auto.
I max out my Gap card. He thinks one pair of shoes works for everything.
Just about the only thing that my boyfriend and I have in common is skydiving.
That's why now -- as he's away in California for the longest time we've ever been apart -- I'm not sad. I'm not pining for him. I'm just fucking jealous.
Because he's at Perris Valley, one of the greatest dropzones in the world, and he's studying with Jim Slaton, one of the greatest canopy pilots in the world.
Meanwhile I'm at home, WATCHING SKYDIVING VIDEOS instead of ACTUALLY SKYDIVING. Bah.
Plus, Boyfriend just got sponsored by this parachute company and will be getting a brand-new, custom-made Xaos 27 canopy for free. That's like winning the skydiving lottery.
Stupid boyfriend and his mad skills.
See, I have this different theory. I think things should be the exact opposite. I should be sponsored by some company -- any company -- because I'm NOT very good.
Really, who needs sponsorship more -- a great skydiver? Or a crappy one?
It's kind of like my theory about drinking and other related vices. What do germs want -- a healthy body? Or a sick one? Healthy, right? So I might as well drink and smoke and keep my body as crappy as possible so that the germs won't want me.
When you think about it, my theory makes perfect sense. Because I'm not a great skydiver, I'm more dedicated and more diligent than the really skilled jumpers. I'm out at the dropzone every weekend. I'm packing as fast as I can. I'm getting on every load possible. Heck, I'm even living on my old emergency stash of Y2K canned peas so I can spend more money on skydiving.
In a perfect world, I would be adopted by a show called "Really Extreme Makeover: From Average Skydiver to AWESOME." I would be given brand new gear, a full-time coaching staff and my own plane that would zip me to altitude all day, every day.
But noooo. Instead I'll have to do things my boyfriend's way. Practice.
HATE HIM.