236 Pounds
I got up early Sunday morning. Normally, I sleep as late as possible, but two things got me up: 1) rodents (wasn’t up late cause my bar is closed,) and 2) skydiving. I was pretty excited that Red Bull had offered to take our bar to Perris Valley for this trip. I got up, showered, and hopped on my bike to get breakfast. They always say to have a big breakfast every morning, and I had no idea if there would be food there, so I had an omelet and hash browns. I was ready to dive.
For the first time, since I don’t know when, I wasn’t the first to arrive. Kimi shouted that from across the street. It’s nice to know my colleagues do show up early for things, even if it’s not work. We hopped in the party bus, which was complete with a disco lights, a plasma screen, and stripper pole. Everybody crammed in the back. I got tired of cramming and took my Sunday New York Times Crossword to the front where I stretched out. I had a few empty boxes left when we pulled in to the skydiving center. We were greeted by Eli, a member of the Red Bull skydiving team. He rolled up on his BMX bike. He’s a super sweet guy, who rarely seemed to get off that little bike. We waited outside the skydiving school. It was getting pretty hot in the shade. Occasionally, skydivers would come in for landings. This made all of my friends feel much better about our odds. I explained that for every one who landed safely increased our odds of not. No one likes a statistician at a skydiving event. We divided up into groups of four. We had to write our names on a roster and whether we wanted a video of our “jump.” (I consider it a fall.) The video cost $115. Most everyone signed up for it. I did not. When asked, “Why?” I told them, “Because I’m cheap.” I don’t consider myself cheap, but $115 bucks for something I’ll watch once. No, thanks. We finally got into jump school. I lead the charge down the hall. First stop was the weigh in. I hopped on the scale: 237 pounds. The woman checking us in said, “230 pounds is the maximum for a tandem jump.” Never fear. I took my keys, cell phone, and wallet out of my cargo shorts. I figured my cell phone must weigh at least 12 pounds. I hopped back on. 236 pounds. I couldn’t go skydiving. I gathered my stuff and walked down the narrow hallway. With my head hanging low, I passed my friends and co-workers. The woman at the front desk said I had two choices. “Throw up?” I asked. “Yes. Or number 2,” she replied.
Now I work out almost every day. I’ve been eating well lately. In fact, had I known there would be a weigh in; I would’ve watched what I had eaten the night before when I ate my friends Mary and Julie out of their daughter’s private school tuition, not eaten a big breakfast, and worn lighter clothes. I got on the scale Saturday morning, naked mind you, at 229 pounds. At the gym today, in my shoes I weighed 231. Our representative from Red Bull told us that they notified our owner of the weight issue. Oh, wait. You mean the owner who sucks on a Powers bottle like a teet? Of course, now it all makes sense. Eli comes over to me and tells me he’s seen people make the weight. I told him I’m not going bulimic so I can jump out of a plane. Everyone was telling me to go take a shit. After last night’s meal, I had already had my morning constitutional and didn’t think I could push out an average sized baby. But I grabbed a cigarette, none the less. It didn’t help. I walked to the bathroom and thought about throwing up. It wasn’t gonna happen. I went to the bar and grabbed a beer, Amstel Light, of course; although, I’m not sure why I chose a “light” beer at this point. I sat down and read the paper. My friends came out from their weigh in. Again I was told by everyone to “just go and take a shit.” I replied, “I’ve taken a few six pounders in my time, but I don’t feel one coming on now.” By the way, everyone told me the scale was five or six pounds off.
My friends went and did their thing. I read the paper, the entire Sunday New York Times. I was gonna do this wind tunnel thing which simulates skydiving, once everyone was done. I was disappointed but not too upset, or so I thought. I saw my girlfriends come in, running up to one another, hugging, jumping with glee. I could even hear them scream through the double paned glass. It wasn’t until Tim came in from his jump that I realized how much I had been stewing. I asked how it was. He said, “You didn’t miss much.” Really? “It was the most amazing experience of my life.” I was so happy for him, but now I started to get pissed. This weekend was totally FUBAR. Not only was I unable to earn a living, but I rode out an hour and a half to sit in a bar and read the paper, while my friends were having life changing experiences. At this point, I decided against the wind tunnel. It seemed like a pathetic consolation at this point. (It’s kind of like having the chance to fuck Angelina Jolie, but you’re too heavy, so you get to poke a blow-up doll, not the same.) Don’t worry, it gets worse.
A cookie was my consolation. I decided to get high for the ride home and thank God I did. We got in the bus and a football game was about to start on the big screen. Awesome! I’ll be high in a few minutes and I’ll watch some ball. Uh, uh. Charlotte, our Red Bull rep, asked who wanted to put their skydiving dvd in first. Instead of football, I sat through about a dozen of my friends’ skydiving videos. Trust me. These videos are all the same except for two things: 1) the person in it, and 2) the song being played (the latter not so true since I heard U2’s “Beautiful Day” more than once.) It’s a good thing I was high, because this own personal hell I was in was truly hilarious. At one point, I said to Tim, “If I have to hear one more time on the plane the videographer saying, ‘We’re not even half way up, yet.’ I’m gonna scream.” I heard it six more times after that. Although I did notice something in the fourth dvd which I hadn’t noticed before. It was a bumper sticker, which read, “Farting Prohibited.” Now there’s some modulation in story telling.
My manager did get me back for my post yesterday. She asked if I was going to someone’s birthday party that night. I told her, “Probably not.” She yelled, “Don’t worry, Garber. There’s not a weight limit for that.” An end to a perfect weekend. We got back. A few of us were still really high and hung out on the street, trying to figure out where to go. We ended up heading home. I got on my bike and pedaled back to my place. I decided that I would go skydiving. It’ll cost me a few hundred bucks and a few hours of driving, but I’m gonna do it. I want to find out if this experience is as life altering as they say. And believe, you, me, I will not weigh 236 pounds.
