We joined the circus for a night.
Spandex clad legs wrapped tightly around a bar, I soared twenty feet above the ground. For a few adrenaline charged seconds, I flew through the air without metal wings or spinning propellers. Upside down, with the wind whipping through my hair and sunlight streaming through the trees, I understood how people could get addicted to this feeling. I didn’t need my pilots license for this kind of flying.
I was on a trapeze.
I love traveling. There’s such a thrill involved in the discovery and exploration of somewhere new. But more than just the final destination, I love the process of getting there. I love being propelled upwards through a ceiling of grey clouds to skim along the rays of brilliant sunshine. I like sitting thousands of feet in the air, jostled by turbulence, watching the world pass by below. Hmm… maybe I should get my pilots license, or something?
But add a baby to that combination and the magic of flight fades a little. When a screaming baby drowns out the rush of the engine, you start counting down the seconds until the plane touches down and that seat belt light switches off.