There are parts of my job I do not like.
Mostly, ordering office supplies. As Megan says, "Like Pam Beesly!"
I contacted Office Max about our annual folder order on July 24th. I knew it usually takes 40 days for an order, and we need them by Oct. 1. So I made sure to contact them well in advance.
Since then, I have called three times and emailed SIXTEEN times and they (two people) have emailed me 18 times. They used the wrong product specifications and the order was wrong. I corrected it. They sent us incorrect samples. I corrected them. Finally, this week, I tell them our absolute need-by date is Oct. 1 and they get all defensive and tell me, "Sorry, this is a custom order, and it will take 40 days."
And I want to scream. Because I didn't do anything wrong. Because we've been in touch for six weeks about this. Because when I asked if the order could be "rushed", they simply said, "No." Because when I asked if we could receive 2,000 of the folders ASAP and the other 34,000 later, they said, "No." Because when I asked if there was anyone else I could talk to in their office, the women replied, "No", but that I could call her if I wanted to. Because when I called the manufacturer directly, they said, "Sorry, but your inquiries will have to go through Office Max." and I wanted to say, "Office Max is THE BANE OF MY EXISTENCE RIGHT NOW."
Seriously. Office Max has two people between me and the manufacturer. So every time we want to correct something, it goes from me to Person A, to Person B, to the manufacturer. And then if the manufacturer says something, it has to come back through the same channel. And it's all TAKING FOREVER.
So there you go. I tried to place an order on July 24th that won't be received until October 11 (to the extreme dismay of me, my boss, and all our early action applicants) because Office Max is a bunch of jerks.
*Sigh* and the worst part is frustrating my boss. Because I like my boss. And I like pleasing people.
Update: I have called three people today in an attempt to finally get this thing settled. None of them answered. Now I sit at my desk, afraid to run to the bathroom or walk over to talk to my coworkers because of course, that moment is going to be when the phone rings...
Update 2 on 9/11: To answer Kyle's question, I had contacted WB Mason for a quote because they are now our preferred vendor (we had Office Max until January). WB Mason told me it was going to be 54 cents a folder. After I told them we were getting them for 13 cents from Office Max, they said they were pleased to let me know they could get the cost down to 43 cents each. That's still high (obviously). So that's the original reason why Office Max became our only option.
At any rate, I cut out Person A in the chain of command and went straight to Person B last Friday. I called her again on Monday (9/9). Still, no one would answer my calls, or return them. But Person B was SO MUCH MORE helpful. She sent me an email confirming the quantity and telling me they will be delivered 9/20. Victory! Victory! Victory! Of course, I haven't seen the bill, so there might be more "negotiating" later, but for now, I am satisfied.
Friday, September 06, 2013
Monday, August 19, 2013
Here's a Test
I'm trying to see if I can post a blog post by sending an email and attaching a picture.
Sunday, July 28, 2013
"The Time I Fell Out of The Sky" or "YOLO"
Once upon a time (read: yesterday), I found myself running down the stairs on a Saturday morning at 6:30 am in sweatpants and flip flops, my sneakers in hand and wet hair swishing behind me.
I was getting picked up by my coworker, E., to go sky-diving.
If you thought you'd never hear my name and sky-diving in the same sentence, you are not the only one. I really thought the only time I'd ever be jumping out of a plane would be if the plane was on fire, or we were parked on a runway.
My coworkers had purchased groupons to go, and E. invited me to be the second on his. My knee-jerk response was "Heck no." But, after a few weeks of brooding, there was a little part of me that thought, "Why not?" I think that's the little part of me that gets bigger and bolder the more years I stay single in a job I'm not crazy about. But hey, what are you going to do? One of my biggest concerns was that it would feel like that terrible stomach-drops-out-of-you rollercoaster feeling, which I hate. But people kept telling me it wouldn't feel like that, so I finally convinced myself to just do it.
Every cliche reason people give for going sky-diving crossed my mind, and they are all probably partially true in my case.
As we drove up to the place, I told E. that my family was going to ask me why I did it. He said, "Just say YOLO." We laughed for a number of reasons, including the fact that YOLO is such a stupid phrase. So... YOLO. That's why I did it.
So, back to the sky-diving. I really had only three goals for this experience: 1) jump out of the plane, 2) don't die landing and 3) don't vomit or wet my pants.
We got there early, signed up, and then waited around watching a group jump. We were then shuffled into a little room in a portable classroom where we were given waivers to sign and a video to watch. Every lawyer in my family would be grieved to see that I initialed things that said I waived my right to hold anyone responsible, regardless of whether or not my injury was due to their gross negligence, poor judgment, foolishness, or stupidity. (Their paperwork was really absurd. I tried not to be angry about it the whole time I waited to jump.)
Then we watched a video about how to jump out of the plane, and what it's going to feel like. "It won't feel like falling," they say. I'm a little relieved. "Most people describe your 40 seconds in freefall as 'flying'. Then your instructor will pull the parachute cord, and you'll float for another 4-5 minutes, back down to the ground. Remember to keep your feet straight out in front of you on landing, so your instructor hits the ground first." They tell us about the equipment. Each parachute costs about $10,000. You have your main parachute, and a reserve parachute that can be activated by the instructor, or automatically released if your electronic guages start reading high velocities. The reserve parachutes are checked every 90 days.
And then it's over. They ask you to leave now if you would like to do so, or to use the bathrooms and wait outside again. We wait for our instructors to land from the current jump and come over to call our names and get us suited up. We sat through another two jumps, watching people anxiously load into the double-propeller plane. We listen to the loud buzzing of the plane as it barrels down the runway, and then it's gone, off into the sky, circling higher and higher. We have to keep track of the plane by the light of the sun glinting off it; otherwise, it's too small to see. Finally, jumpers start to drop out of it and scatter, like little tiny bugs in a path trailing the plane. Everyone's making small talk, some excited, some nervous.
The jumpers get larger and larger in the sky, and then all their parachutes come out and they drift, like leaves, back and forth to the ground, where they slide in as their parachutes fall and drag in behind them in big puffy piles. The instructors unclip their passengers, letting them run off to take pictures, while they gather up the chutes and pull them in to be re-packed.
We waited, nervously, watching the jumpers. Then, a tall man with a short military-style crew-cut comes around the corner. He's wearing track pants and a purple t-shirt, his goggles dangling on a black bungee cord around his neck. "Mollie?" "Yep, that's me!" He takes me aside, gives me a red jumpsuit, and holds out the harness for me to put on, "Like a jacket." He asks if I'm excited. My heart is racing and I can feel my stomach churning. "Nope, mostly scared." I reply. "Good," he says. "That's how I know you're sane." He winks at me. "I've done this 5,000 times. What does that say about me?" His question hangs in the air and makes me more nervous, not less.
After I'm strapped in, he walks me over to a poster on the wall with four pictures. He points. "Ok. When we get in the plane, I'm going to connect my straps to yours. I'm going to double-check everything. We're going to look at your altimeter and wait until it reads about 7,000 ft. Then you'll put on your goggles. At 9,000 feet, I'll check our straps again, and we'll move to the back of the plane. You need to crouch low, like this, to the ground with your hands close across your chest so I can see out. We'll rock one, two, three, and we'll be out. After we leave the plane, you need to move into the 'arch' position, like this. Hands go out to your sides, feet up on my butt. Don't worry about kicking me. If you do, I'll know you're in the right position. It's important that you don't grab my arms. I'll be trying to keep us steady. If you flail your arms or legs, we'll start spinning and it will be harder for me to pull the parachute chord." He says all this, very nonchalantly, in about two breaths and I can feel my eyes opening wide as I stare at him, trying to remember everything. "I can do this," I tell myself. "Don't freak out. Keep your dignity."
He asks if I've tried on my hat and before I can get out the whole word, "Yes," he turns and marches off. "Alright, let's get out to the plane!"
We climb up the stairs into the back of the plane where there are two benches, lengthwise. He sits down, his back to the cockpit, and pats the seat in front of him for me. An instructor climbs in and scoots back into me; the parachute pack squishing me. At last, we're all in and the ground director bangs the side of the plane and yells "Have a good jump!"
The plane starts rumbling along and I look out the little window to my right as the ground becomes a green blur and the wing of the plane comes in and out of view as we rock back and forth. Then, finally, we're off in the sky. The houses get smaller, and the sky gets brighter.
At first, I'm trying to remind myself it's like taking off in a commercial jet. I like to look out the window on take-off and see the world disappear. It calms me a little, until my mind starts racing as I think about what's about to happen and I remember that this is not a commercial flight. I will be jumping out of this plane. My eyes wander. There's a gap in the arching ceiling panels; it's patched with white duct tape. The left side is flapping in the wind. There's bumper stickers and scratch marks all across the inside walls. My nerves are getting to me.
I glance at my altimeter. 5,000 feet. My instructor tells me two people will be jumping here. I watch as a woman at the back of the plane pulls the plastic flap back and snaps it to the wall of the plane. "That guy is 78 years old," my instructor tells me. I watch as he perches himself at the edge of the plane, leaning out the door, and just like that, he's gone. The illusion created by falling and losing forward velocity makes it look like he got sucked out, and that does nothing good for my nerves. The plane is louder now; the cold air whooshes through the open door as we climb higher.
My instructor sees me fumbling with the strap to my hat. "You can put it on now, if you want," he yells in my ear. "But most people think it's uncomfortable." Trying to occupy myself, I pull it on and realize the chin strap is way too loose. As visions of the buckle flapping against my teeth as we fall at 120 mph flash in my mind, I panic for a second before turning to ask over my shoulder, "Is this supposed to be tighter?" "Yes" yells my instructor. He pulls it off my head. "Don't worry, we've got plenty of time. I'm just going to adjust it a little." When he gives it back, my altimeter reads 7,000 feet. Time to put the hat on for good.
I look at the middle-aged man next to me. He's serious and tight-lipped now; his brave smile has disappeared. "Mollie," my instructor says. "I love the nervous laughter. We're gonna be fine. No worries." I have no response and I laugh in spite of myself. He reaches around me and I can smell the grease and dirt on his hands as he tugs on the straps across my chest. "Just checking everything one last time." Altimeter reads 8,000 feet. The instructors start fist-bumping and high-fiving, "Let's do this man! It's gonna be a great jump!" I look out the window one last time. The earth has faded into an amalgam of greens and yellows. The sky is a deep blue, lighter near the horizon. I grab the hand of my coworker and squeeze. This is really happening.
Next thing you know, my instructor is scooting us forward on the bench. "Crouch down, Mollie." My body is reacting reflexively; I'm not sure I'm controlling anything at this point. My instructor reaches around me and puts my hands across my chest. "Like this until we get out of the plane, then arch. Alright?" We're at the edge of the plane. For a couple dizzying seconds, I look straight down at the ground below me. "One, two, three." My stomach drops. The air is knocked out of me. There's blackness. A couple seconds later, I realize my eyes are closed, my teeth are clenched. My mind is racing again: "I'm out of the plane. Arching, arching!" I open my eyes to see the earth almost two miles below me. Luckily, my arms are already in the right position now; I did it without thinking. I become aware of my feet and pull them up and back, hitting my instructor. His hands come around in front of my face. Two thumbs up.
Far away, someone is screaming. I take a breath and the noise stops. My mouth is open wide and in that moment, I realize it was me; I am the one screaming. The air is rushing in my ears and mouth so loudly that I can barely hear when I start screaming again. My eyes are watering. I don't feel like I'm falling anymore, but I'm moving through the air at a super high rate of speed, and all I really feel is the air resistance and pressure. I see the earth get closer; I focus on the little puddles that turn into lakes. The fall lasts about 40 seconds; it takes a few breaths to scream for that long. There's no dignity to be had; I screamed my lungs out and that's just the way it is.
I can feel my instructor moving around behind me, and then I'm jerked backwards like a slingshot. I'm hanging upright now, and I become aware of the pressure of the harness on my legs and thighs. The parachute just opened. The force of the change takes me by surprise. "Oh my gosh!" I yell. I pull my hands in to hold onto my harness and realize the top strap has come up around my shoulders; I pull it back down across my chest. My jaw hurts. I wipe the tears from my eyes. "Holy crap!" "Wasn't that wild!?" my instructor asks. "That was terrifying! This is beautiful, though." "Well, you did great right out of the plane. You made my job really easy. Now you can enjoy it."
Finally, my eyes can focus and take in the view, instead of just seeing. Above me, the sky is a bright blue with few clouds. Below me, the earth is still far away. There are little specks for houses. My instructor points out Boston, way out on the horizon, a little toothpick village in the haze. We glide back and forth and he shows me the New Hampshire mountains and points out the airport, way down below; the landing field about the size of a quarter.
There's a tug from side to side as my instructor handles the parachute and we drift back and forth. This is the good part. I could do this all day. I look up behind me to see the other parachutes, half-moons of bright colors floating down with us like feathers. The pressure of the harness and resistance of the parachute give the sensation of complete security; I am not at all worried about being unsafe or falling, and I forget that we are barreling through the sky, not actually attached to anything.
My instructor reminds me of landing procedures. "We're going to be on the ground in about 30 seconds. You need to pick your feet up, straight in front of you. Hold onto your harness at the top here, and you can put your head back; whatever you need to do to get your feet up." I briefly experiment, trying to pull them back and he tells me, "Not now. I'll let you know when."
The trees clear and we get closer to the ground. We're coming in on a slight turn to the right. I'm anxious. The ground looks close, but he hasn't told me to pull my feet up yet. Finally, he yells, "Feet up!" I pull up on my harness. I see my legs out in front of me, but they're not up. I panic a little, but all I can do is look at them; they're not moving. I can't pull them up high enough. My instructor's legs come up under mine. "Up, up, up!" he yells. We hit the ground and I stumble a little, falling to my knees. The pictures from my brief orientation before take-off flash through my head, reminding me: this is not ideal. My instructor stands behind me, absorbing the force of the ground, and keeping me from falling on my face. I guess we've been detached because I scramble to my feet with him behind me. "Are you alright?!" he asks. I feel instantly embarrassed. "Oh yeah, I'm fine." I apologize sheepishly for landing wrong. "That's alright. I just hate for people to get hurt. You got to get those legs up!" I nod and agree and begin walking back to the trailers. But walking is hard. My legs are trembling. I was not hurt during landing, but now I understand why my legs just hung there. They're shaking and wobbly and I have no control over them, even after landing.** It feels like they're going to collapse underneath me. I make it to a bench and have to sit down. The guy comes over and unstraps my harness and I take off the jumpsuit.
E. comes and sits next to me and we catch our breath. I wait for the knots in my stomach to go away. It takes a few more minutes for me to be able to stand again. We are told to go over to a big stack of drawers and take out a pre-signed certificate from our instructors. Hah.
We take a few pictures with our certificates and then amble back to the car, just as another group is lining up to get in the plane. I see my instructor pointing at the pictures with a new passenger. "You're going to crouch like this..." his voice fades.
I realize I'm starving; I haven't eaten since dinner the night before and it's about noon now.
We eat lunch and I spend the rest of the day incredulously asking E. "Do you know what I did today?!" and answering my own question: "Jumped out of a plane!" in much the same way that Dory repeats "P. Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way, Sydney." in Finding Nemo.
So... there you go. I jumped* out of a plane. And I didn't die, vomit, or wet my pants. Mission accomplished. It was craziness. My jaw hurt, I had a headache (I assume from the screaming), there's soreness in my abs and thighs. But I did it.
And remember, if anyone tells you "it doesn't feel like falling"- they are lying. Because for about 5 of the most terrifying seconds of your life, it definitely feels like falling.
*The word "jumped" kind of implies choice. Once you get yourself in the plane, there are no more choices. You basically do whatever your instructor wants to do, whether you like it or not.
**Also because I have literally zero lower abs/back strength.
I was getting picked up by my coworker, E., to go sky-diving.
If you thought you'd never hear my name and sky-diving in the same sentence, you are not the only one. I really thought the only time I'd ever be jumping out of a plane would be if the plane was on fire, or we were parked on a runway.
My coworkers had purchased groupons to go, and E. invited me to be the second on his. My knee-jerk response was "Heck no." But, after a few weeks of brooding, there was a little part of me that thought, "Why not?" I think that's the little part of me that gets bigger and bolder the more years I stay single in a job I'm not crazy about. But hey, what are you going to do? One of my biggest concerns was that it would feel like that terrible stomach-drops-out-of-you rollercoaster feeling, which I hate. But people kept telling me it wouldn't feel like that, so I finally convinced myself to just do it.
Every cliche reason people give for going sky-diving crossed my mind, and they are all probably partially true in my case.
As we drove up to the place, I told E. that my family was going to ask me why I did it. He said, "Just say YOLO." We laughed for a number of reasons, including the fact that YOLO is such a stupid phrase. So... YOLO. That's why I did it.
So, back to the sky-diving. I really had only three goals for this experience: 1) jump out of the plane, 2) don't die landing and 3) don't vomit or wet my pants.
We got there early, signed up, and then waited around watching a group jump. We were then shuffled into a little room in a portable classroom where we were given waivers to sign and a video to watch. Every lawyer in my family would be grieved to see that I initialed things that said I waived my right to hold anyone responsible, regardless of whether or not my injury was due to their gross negligence, poor judgment, foolishness, or stupidity. (Their paperwork was really absurd. I tried not to be angry about it the whole time I waited to jump.)
Then we watched a video about how to jump out of the plane, and what it's going to feel like. "It won't feel like falling," they say. I'm a little relieved. "Most people describe your 40 seconds in freefall as 'flying'. Then your instructor will pull the parachute cord, and you'll float for another 4-5 minutes, back down to the ground. Remember to keep your feet straight out in front of you on landing, so your instructor hits the ground first." They tell us about the equipment. Each parachute costs about $10,000. You have your main parachute, and a reserve parachute that can be activated by the instructor, or automatically released if your electronic guages start reading high velocities. The reserve parachutes are checked every 90 days.
And then it's over. They ask you to leave now if you would like to do so, or to use the bathrooms and wait outside again. We wait for our instructors to land from the current jump and come over to call our names and get us suited up. We sat through another two jumps, watching people anxiously load into the double-propeller plane. We listen to the loud buzzing of the plane as it barrels down the runway, and then it's gone, off into the sky, circling higher and higher. We have to keep track of the plane by the light of the sun glinting off it; otherwise, it's too small to see. Finally, jumpers start to drop out of it and scatter, like little tiny bugs in a path trailing the plane. Everyone's making small talk, some excited, some nervous.
The jumpers get larger and larger in the sky, and then all their parachutes come out and they drift, like leaves, back and forth to the ground, where they slide in as their parachutes fall and drag in behind them in big puffy piles. The instructors unclip their passengers, letting them run off to take pictures, while they gather up the chutes and pull them in to be re-packed.
After I'm strapped in, he walks me over to a poster on the wall with four pictures. He points. "Ok. When we get in the plane, I'm going to connect my straps to yours. I'm going to double-check everything. We're going to look at your altimeter and wait until it reads about 7,000 ft. Then you'll put on your goggles. At 9,000 feet, I'll check our straps again, and we'll move to the back of the plane. You need to crouch low, like this, to the ground with your hands close across your chest so I can see out. We'll rock one, two, three, and we'll be out. After we leave the plane, you need to move into the 'arch' position, like this. Hands go out to your sides, feet up on my butt. Don't worry about kicking me. If you do, I'll know you're in the right position. It's important that you don't grab my arms. I'll be trying to keep us steady. If you flail your arms or legs, we'll start spinning and it will be harder for me to pull the parachute chord." He says all this, very nonchalantly, in about two breaths and I can feel my eyes opening wide as I stare at him, trying to remember everything. "I can do this," I tell myself. "Don't freak out. Keep your dignity."
He asks if I've tried on my hat and before I can get out the whole word, "Yes," he turns and marches off. "Alright, let's get out to the plane!"
We climb up the stairs into the back of the plane where there are two benches, lengthwise. He sits down, his back to the cockpit, and pats the seat in front of him for me. An instructor climbs in and scoots back into me; the parachute pack squishing me. At last, we're all in and the ground director bangs the side of the plane and yells "Have a good jump!"
The plane starts rumbling along and I look out the little window to my right as the ground becomes a green blur and the wing of the plane comes in and out of view as we rock back and forth. Then, finally, we're off in the sky. The houses get smaller, and the sky gets brighter.
At first, I'm trying to remind myself it's like taking off in a commercial jet. I like to look out the window on take-off and see the world disappear. It calms me a little, until my mind starts racing as I think about what's about to happen and I remember that this is not a commercial flight. I will be jumping out of this plane. My eyes wander. There's a gap in the arching ceiling panels; it's patched with white duct tape. The left side is flapping in the wind. There's bumper stickers and scratch marks all across the inside walls. My nerves are getting to me.
I glance at my altimeter. 5,000 feet. My instructor tells me two people will be jumping here. I watch as a woman at the back of the plane pulls the plastic flap back and snaps it to the wall of the plane. "That guy is 78 years old," my instructor tells me. I watch as he perches himself at the edge of the plane, leaning out the door, and just like that, he's gone. The illusion created by falling and losing forward velocity makes it look like he got sucked out, and that does nothing good for my nerves. The plane is louder now; the cold air whooshes through the open door as we climb higher.
My instructor sees me fumbling with the strap to my hat. "You can put it on now, if you want," he yells in my ear. "But most people think it's uncomfortable." Trying to occupy myself, I pull it on and realize the chin strap is way too loose. As visions of the buckle flapping against my teeth as we fall at 120 mph flash in my mind, I panic for a second before turning to ask over my shoulder, "Is this supposed to be tighter?" "Yes" yells my instructor. He pulls it off my head. "Don't worry, we've got plenty of time. I'm just going to adjust it a little." When he gives it back, my altimeter reads 7,000 feet. Time to put the hat on for good.
I look at the middle-aged man next to me. He's serious and tight-lipped now; his brave smile has disappeared. "Mollie," my instructor says. "I love the nervous laughter. We're gonna be fine. No worries." I have no response and I laugh in spite of myself. He reaches around me and I can smell the grease and dirt on his hands as he tugs on the straps across my chest. "Just checking everything one last time." Altimeter reads 8,000 feet. The instructors start fist-bumping and high-fiving, "Let's do this man! It's gonna be a great jump!" I look out the window one last time. The earth has faded into an amalgam of greens and yellows. The sky is a deep blue, lighter near the horizon. I grab the hand of my coworker and squeeze. This is really happening.
Next thing you know, my instructor is scooting us forward on the bench. "Crouch down, Mollie." My body is reacting reflexively; I'm not sure I'm controlling anything at this point. My instructor reaches around me and puts my hands across my chest. "Like this until we get out of the plane, then arch. Alright?" We're at the edge of the plane. For a couple dizzying seconds, I look straight down at the ground below me. "One, two, three." My stomach drops. The air is knocked out of me. There's blackness. A couple seconds later, I realize my eyes are closed, my teeth are clenched. My mind is racing again: "I'm out of the plane. Arching, arching!" I open my eyes to see the earth almost two miles below me. Luckily, my arms are already in the right position now; I did it without thinking. I become aware of my feet and pull them up and back, hitting my instructor. His hands come around in front of my face. Two thumbs up.
Far away, someone is screaming. I take a breath and the noise stops. My mouth is open wide and in that moment, I realize it was me; I am the one screaming. The air is rushing in my ears and mouth so loudly that I can barely hear when I start screaming again. My eyes are watering. I don't feel like I'm falling anymore, but I'm moving through the air at a super high rate of speed, and all I really feel is the air resistance and pressure. I see the earth get closer; I focus on the little puddles that turn into lakes. The fall lasts about 40 seconds; it takes a few breaths to scream for that long. There's no dignity to be had; I screamed my lungs out and that's just the way it is.
I can feel my instructor moving around behind me, and then I'm jerked backwards like a slingshot. I'm hanging upright now, and I become aware of the pressure of the harness on my legs and thighs. The parachute just opened. The force of the change takes me by surprise. "Oh my gosh!" I yell. I pull my hands in to hold onto my harness and realize the top strap has come up around my shoulders; I pull it back down across my chest. My jaw hurts. I wipe the tears from my eyes. "Holy crap!" "Wasn't that wild!?" my instructor asks. "That was terrifying! This is beautiful, though." "Well, you did great right out of the plane. You made my job really easy. Now you can enjoy it."
Finally, my eyes can focus and take in the view, instead of just seeing. Above me, the sky is a bright blue with few clouds. Below me, the earth is still far away. There are little specks for houses. My instructor points out Boston, way out on the horizon, a little toothpick village in the haze. We glide back and forth and he shows me the New Hampshire mountains and points out the airport, way down below; the landing field about the size of a quarter.
There's a tug from side to side as my instructor handles the parachute and we drift back and forth. This is the good part. I could do this all day. I look up behind me to see the other parachutes, half-moons of bright colors floating down with us like feathers. The pressure of the harness and resistance of the parachute give the sensation of complete security; I am not at all worried about being unsafe or falling, and I forget that we are barreling through the sky, not actually attached to anything.
My instructor reminds me of landing procedures. "We're going to be on the ground in about 30 seconds. You need to pick your feet up, straight in front of you. Hold onto your harness at the top here, and you can put your head back; whatever you need to do to get your feet up." I briefly experiment, trying to pull them back and he tells me, "Not now. I'll let you know when."
The trees clear and we get closer to the ground. We're coming in on a slight turn to the right. I'm anxious. The ground looks close, but he hasn't told me to pull my feet up yet. Finally, he yells, "Feet up!" I pull up on my harness. I see my legs out in front of me, but they're not up. I panic a little, but all I can do is look at them; they're not moving. I can't pull them up high enough. My instructor's legs come up under mine. "Up, up, up!" he yells. We hit the ground and I stumble a little, falling to my knees. The pictures from my brief orientation before take-off flash through my head, reminding me: this is not ideal. My instructor stands behind me, absorbing the force of the ground, and keeping me from falling on my face. I guess we've been detached because I scramble to my feet with him behind me. "Are you alright?!" he asks. I feel instantly embarrassed. "Oh yeah, I'm fine." I apologize sheepishly for landing wrong. "That's alright. I just hate for people to get hurt. You got to get those legs up!" I nod and agree and begin walking back to the trailers. But walking is hard. My legs are trembling. I was not hurt during landing, but now I understand why my legs just hung there. They're shaking and wobbly and I have no control over them, even after landing.** It feels like they're going to collapse underneath me. I make it to a bench and have to sit down. The guy comes over and unstraps my harness and I take off the jumpsuit.
E. comes and sits next to me and we catch our breath. I wait for the knots in my stomach to go away. It takes a few more minutes for me to be able to stand again. We are told to go over to a big stack of drawers and take out a pre-signed certificate from our instructors. Hah.
We take a few pictures with our certificates and then amble back to the car, just as another group is lining up to get in the plane. I see my instructor pointing at the pictures with a new passenger. "You're going to crouch like this..." his voice fades.
I realize I'm starving; I haven't eaten since dinner the night before and it's about noon now.
We eat lunch and I spend the rest of the day incredulously asking E. "Do you know what I did today?!" and answering my own question: "Jumped out of a plane!" in much the same way that Dory repeats "P. Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way, Sydney." in Finding Nemo.
So... there you go. I jumped* out of a plane. And I didn't die, vomit, or wet my pants. Mission accomplished. It was craziness. My jaw hurt, I had a headache (I assume from the screaming), there's soreness in my abs and thighs. But I did it.
And remember, if anyone tells you "it doesn't feel like falling"- they are lying. Because for about 5 of the most terrifying seconds of your life, it definitely feels like falling.
*The word "jumped" kind of implies choice. Once you get yourself in the plane, there are no more choices. You basically do whatever your instructor wants to do, whether you like it or not.
**Also because I have literally zero lower abs/back strength.
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