I’ve been thinking a lot about death lately, due to a recent family loss. And thinking about death makes me think about life. Just what do I want to accomplish before my time is up? And, if I have a bucket list, what is NOT going to be on it?

1. Learn to fly.

When I was in my twenties, half a life-time ago, I took an introductory pilot lesson. We took off, the pilot turned the controls over to me and I did a couple of baby dips and turns. I then turned a hideous shade of green and tried valiantly to hold down my lunch. That was my first and last lesson. I’m no Amelia Earhart.

2. Climb Mt. Everest.

As a high school senior, I went to Mexico with the Spanish Club. Que emocianante! I was so careful to avoid sunburn and to avoid drinking the water. By midweek I was the only student not sicker than a dog. Then we went to Mexico City, and the altitude had me so light-headed that I was blacking out left and right. I had to be physically supported to move about. Que verguenza! I’m no Sir Edmund Hillary.

3. Ride a camel.

I’m sure I’ve mentioned the sisters’ trip to Morocco before. At one point in the journey, we hired a car and driver to take us out to the Sahara desert to see the sunrise on the world’s largest sand dune, Erg Chebbi. The driver dropped us at a little mud building in the middle of nowhere, and some beturbaned natives helped us mount camels to take us the rest of the way. I may have freaked out a little bit. Those suckers are really tall! I insisted on getting down, and I did not see Erg Chebbi at sunrise. I’m no Lawrence of Arabia.

camel ride

4. Snorkel in the open sea.

I took scuba lessons in a Minnesota community pool and got my certification in a murky Minnesota lake. I thought snorkeling off the Mexican coast would not be a big deal. The water was so clean and clear that I could see twenty feet down to the seabed. Apparently, I’m afraid of depths as well as heights. I had a panic attack. I grabbed at a coral formation and hung on for dear life. The Mexican guide tried to pry me loose as the waves pounded me against the sharp coral, cutting me over and over. Eventually, I let go and paddled my bloody self back to the boat. I never want to do that again. I’m no Jacques Cousteau.

I’ve always thought of myself as an adventurous woman, but I’ve been repeatedly slammed up against my limitations. At fifty-six years old, it’s probably time to accept myself as I really am. I’m a wobbly-kneed, wonky-eyed bundle of phobias. With a very rich fantasy life.

Stay tuned…

p.s. I shared this on Chic on a Shoestring.

And at The Cottage Market.

And at Cozy Little House.