(July 7, 2015 at 8:09 pm)Beccs Wrote: My parents and some friends keep telling me I'm going to get myself killed and that I have a death wish because I like to do "risky" activities.
Sounds similar, but there's a bit of a backstory. My wife won't even ride a roller coaster. Me? Can't get enough, the more extreme the better, but she'll go as absurdly fast in a circle on anything close to the ground. I tried to explain that the sudden stop at ground level g-forces of those rides are just as mortal as a sudden stop from free fall. She understood, but she's simply terrified of heights (I have a funny story about how I 'tricked' her to get on the sky lift at Disney World).
When I was in the Navy a group of us planned a sky-diving trip. It was one of those deals where you could attend a short class and do a tandem jump with a discount for the full course and solo jump. We planned it two months in advance and my wife didn't like it, but had no problem with it. Two weeks before showtime the escapade is made a topic of conversation with my dipshit brother. In the same breath, his infinite Mormon wisdom allows him say something close to this, "That sounds great! I'd go with him if it weren't for the fact that Grandpa died in a skydiving accident".
He didn't lie, because this was a fact; however, it was my paternal grandfather whom I met once when I was five (he died when I was 11). I have only vague memories of meeting him; my brother was two at the time. I had also been estranged from my father since I was a teen so it's not like this was some deep dark family secret I was keeping from my wife. Before then, this 'Grandpa' was never a thought or a topic of conversation, let alone a barometer for living.
Alas, my first jump will exorcise many demons.
