Join a gym or start playing guitar again?

T and I are horrible at returning videos, and our late fees are legendary. We scoff at people who complain about paying 12$ in fees. To us, this is standard. Moreover, a couple of weeks ago, T rented movies at the Mont-Royal/St-Denis Blockbuster. Thinking I’d do a good deed, I returned them. To our usual Blockbuster, the one on Ontario. They called us, and we fixed the whole thing. But got a late fee.

So, a couple of weeks ago I went to Texas. Expecting to be horrendously bored, I rented seven DVDs to bring with me. I returned them almost on time. But a couple of days later, I noticed one of the DVDs was still in my machine. I’d returned an empty box. Blockbuster obviously hadn’t noticed either, because they hadn’t called to warn that the movie was late.

That evening I went to return the orphan DVD. There were about fifteen people waiting in line, and the clerk was stressed. She was assisted by a trainee, who seemed to be hindering her more than anything else. Her experienced colleague hadn’t shown up. Anyway, my turn came, I explained the whole thing and she looked through the “DVD boxes without DVDs” drawer (I’m obviously not the only dimwit on the Plateau). She rudely asserted that I hadn’t returned the box. I named off all the other movies I had returned with it, and told her I hadn’t been called about a late video. I asked her to check my account.

However, my account looked like a Christmas tree. Things were flashing all over the screen. I could read

“Customer returned DVD to wrong branch”
“Customer has late fee”
“Customer has late fee”
“Customer has late fee”
“Customer has late fee”
“Customer has late fee”
“Customer has late fee”
“Customer has late fee”
“Customer has late fee”
Etc.

Didn’t make me look too good. I told the clerk it wasn’t worth arguing, it was just a Blockbuster DVD box she was missing anyway. While all this is happening, the trainee is trying to create a new membership, and at every step of the process, he asks the now-very-stressed main clerk how to proceed. She’s struggling to unlock a DVD box and refusing to believe me, only half listening. Finally she just starts serving someone else. I go check to see if the box hasn’t simply been returned to the shelf. It hasn’t.

The issue still not resolved, not too sure what to do, I stand next to the counter, waiting for her to finish serving her current customer. She finally notices me, and says “What are you still doing here?!!”. I ask her what she wants me to do about the missing box. “I’ll deal with it, just… go!!”.

I’m not sure that qualifies as getting kicked out of a video store, but it made me feel like a rebel anyway.

Wake up yesterday at the crack of dawn to drive T to St-Jérôme for his 8 am appointment with adventure. It’s the big day, the day where T jumps out of the plane with fingers crossed.

We get there without incident, and since it’s such an ungodly hour, T’s one of only two jumpers in the day’s first flight, so the master jumper if I want to jump too. I look down at my high-heel boots and inappropriate apparel, and promptly say “Hell yeah!!!”

Minutes later we’re in flight suits, using a wooden contraption to practice getting out of the plane. One foot on the wing, one in the plane, bend over and hold onto your harness, don’t look down. They’ve gotta be shitting me. I’m trying to imagine what this will be like at 12000 feet, icy wind screaming through me. Still, none of it hits home. T has had all week to realize what’s going on (and indeed slept very badly the night before), but to me this is still all very theoretical. I’m cool as a cucumber. This isn’t really happening. I’m not really doing this.

Remember to arch your back when we freefall. Yeah, ok, sure.

Then, six of us (two instructors, three jumpers and one pilot) squeeze into the tiny Cessna and take off. When I say squeeze, I mean squeeze. There is more space in my car than in that plane. I’m sitting between my instructor’s legs, unable to move, looking at the beautiful fall scenery. Getting smaller and smaller.

Finally, they open the door to this tiny can, and the first jumper, who’s going solo, steps out onto the bar, and one second he’s there, says goodbye, and in the next moment he’s immediately sucked off the wing and recedes instantly into nothingness.

I think, Ok, so that was the freakiest thing I’ve ever seen.

T and his instructor jump as mine and I are busy with the difficult business of turning around in the sardine can, and getting into position. No time to think, we’re on. Sure enough, it’s so windy that I can’t get my foot solidly onto the jump bar. At last I give it my everything, as my instructor jumps, pushing me along.

I don’t arch my back.

We tumble end over end, falling at 200 kmh towards the ground. I see the plane, the ground, the plane, the ground. I realize we’re tumbling, splay my arms out and arch my back. We stabilize, but are still screaming towards the ground at an insane speed. The wind is violently pushing the skin on my face back. My ears pop most painfully. 7000 feet in 35 seconds.

The chute opens and immediately, the storm ends. All is quiet and beautiful. We make a few turns for fun, but basically just drift down, watching the autumn colors. We land sitting down, skidding rapidly to a stop on our butts.

An hour later, I’m back in Montreal, having breakfast, still not quite believing what just happened.

Yeah, so what?

I mean, I don’t really understand people who rush to the store to buy a lottery ticket when the jackpot gets bigger. To me, 30 million dollars isn’t really more motivating than the usual - what is it? - 7, 12 million dollars? 12 million does me just fine, really.

It’s exactly as if someone offered me 12 million dollars to do some job, and I said “no, but make it 30 and we have a deal”. Wouldn’t happen. If 12 million dollars isn’t good enough to make me buy a ticket, neither is 30.

However, I did join the company ticket pool. There’s no way I’m going to be left out if everyone around here strikes it rich and quits.

30 million isn’t enough to make me play the lottery. But avoiding looking stupid sure is.

My ex and I have this thing we have whereby we get together whenever a new Coen brothers movie comes out. It gives us an excuse to catch up at least every year and a half or so.

Anyway, Matt’s a vet, and one of the biggest kicks I get out of our meetings is an update of all the crazy cases he’s gotten since the last one. Anything from dogs on cocaine to a horse spraying diarrhea like a fire extinguisher.

Anyway, the Coens have a new movie out, and I’ve gotten my latest gem from the annals of veterinary medicine: a study of gay necrophiliac ducks. Actual quote: “an other drake mallard raped the corpse almost continuously for 75 minutes”. As they say on Fark, still no cure for cancer.

Lou over at Typo Negative brings my attention to something I hadn’t even noticed, although I’d seen the ads: there’s a smiley in the Canadiens logo.

My favorite one of those… types of things has always been the forward arrow that is hidden almost subliminally in the Federal Express logo. Can you see it?

So I spent this weekend celebrating T’s birthday with his friends in a lovely ranch up north that we had rented for the occasion. Complete with stables, fireplace, an assortment of cowboy hats and Tammy Wynette music, the place was fully decorated in the kitschiest of Western styles. We ate like pigs and a hearty good time was had by all.

T got a parachute jump as a present from his friends. So next week, I’m going to go watch them throw my boyfriend off a plane.

Don’t nobody get no ideas. If the chute doesn’t open, the Playstation is mine. For the rest, you’ll have to come to the yard sale.

T turns 30 today. He’s not happy about it. This morning, I reminded him that 30 is only half of 60, but it didn’t seem to cheer him up.

The worst age for me was 26, because I was now closer to 30 than 20. But by the time I got close to my thirtieth birthday, it couldn’t come soon enough. That is not to say I didn’t freak out the night before, but overall I welcomed it. I was, and still am, at a point in my life and especially my career where experience and credibility are more important than youthfulness. When I get asked my age I say thirtysomething, not to appear younger, but to give the impression I’m older than the 31 I am.

30 didn’t kill me, like I might have thought it would when I was 20. Climbing Mt. Colden is no longer a breeze, but rather a full day’s expedition, and quite an achievement at that. I don’t get hit on very often. Lines have appeared on my forehead. I’ve put on a pound a year since 20. Some white hairs, but still only in manageable pluckable numbers.

But at the same time, the real fears I might have had about aging when I was 20 have failed to materialize. Turning 30 hasn’t made it harder to make friends. I find myself surrounded by like-minded, fabulous thirtysomething individuals.

Surviving 30 has made me confident about what comes next. Bring on 40 and 50. I know they won’t negatively affect anything that really matters.

Happy birthday, T. You make a fabulous case for the thirties, et je sais que tu continueras à ratatiner en beauté.