Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

31 January 2012

Reasons Why I'll Never Go Nude Sky Diving

You know how people always have things on their bucket list, like "Sky Dive Nude Over The Grand Canyon"??

I'm not one of those people.

My bucket list includes things like, "Eat every kind of cheese ever made" and "Flash my boobs at the top of the Eiffel Tower."

(Sidebar:  Absolutely Fabulous is my #1 favorite show, like, ever, and Patsy and Edina are my Siamese Spirit Animals.  In the episode where they go to Paris for a fashion shoot and Eddie lures Saffie to the top of the Eiffel tower and convinces her to flash her boobs, screaming, "Your tits are the key to your cage, darling!" I had an epiphany.  My tits are the key to my cage.  I need to go to Paris and flash them.)

One day, this dream will come true.

My Bucket List (or, as I like to call it, my Fuck It List) does not include activity that involves too much exercise or risking my life.  It doesn't involve running in marathons or bungee jumping off of the Empire State Building, or even taking the Chunnel from London to Paris.  (Okay, I might do that.  But only if it gets me to the top of the Eiffel Tower with  my top off.)

And most of all, I have no such lofty ambition as to throw myself out of an airplane.  Naked.

There isn't enough Xanax and alcohol in the world to EVER make that happen.  (I think.  Though maybe I should add "See if there's enough Xanax and alcohol in the world to make me jump starkers out of an airplane.")

Every time a naked person jumps from an airplane, a nudist gets his wings.

Years ago, my ex-husband and I lived in Lake Elsinore, CA.  Lake Elsinore is famous for biker rallies, high crime, and nude sky diving.

I kid you not.

There is a nudist colony hidden amongst the hills of the Ortega Highway, which winds down into Lake Elsinore.  It's not one of those nudist colonies where people play naked volleyball or naked Twister or lounge naked by a sparkling blue pool.  (Well, they do, but wait... there's more!)

It's one of those nudist colonies where people hike, bike, and throw themselves off of cliffs, naked.

Every year they have a Big Fat Saggy-Tittied Flapping-Nutsack Naked Hang-gliding event.  (I don't know if they actually call it that, but they might as well.)

And thousands and thousands of Lake Elsinorians wander around outside, looking up.

And in 1987, I was one of those people, looking up.

(I didn't actually see anything, but it wasn't for lack of trying.)

"I'm a bird!  I'm a plane!  I'm a... Wait, that's not a rip cord!!!"

I'm intrigued, I am... but not enough to risk life and limb, not to mention numerous abrasions and foreign objects getting lodged in unfortunate orifices.  (Because you just know I'd be the person landing ass-first on a freaking cactus.  And if you don't know that, this is the first time you've read my blog.)

Many thoughts run through my head when I think of the wind in my hair, the bugs in my teeth, the ground 5 miles below me...

I think, "Dear God, it's not a parachute... it's a knapsack!" And then I laugh myself stupid, remembering the time Chandler said it on Friends.

Then I think, "I'd probably poop out of sheer fear... and that would be an unpleasant surprise for the folks below.  Dani, Dani, in the sky, dropped a poopy in my eye..."  And then I laugh myself stupid yet again, because poems about poop are pretty damn funny.

With my luck, the wind would shift and the Santa Anas would blow through the valley and there'd be a Dani-shaped indentation on the side of a mountain.

A naked Dani-shaped indentation on the side of a mountain.  My entire family would have to leave the state of California, just from the shame of that indentation.

Or I'd land, like a disoriented bug, on the windshield of a semi headed for the Grapevine.  Imagine that hurtling towards you as you rounded a bend, listening to country music and talking on your CB radio about the damn fool naked hippies jumping off of cliffs.

Lives would be ruined and again, it would be all my fault.

What if I got flipped upside down, like the Awkward Turtle, and just fell like a sack of stones to the ground, belly up and flapping my arms uselessly trying to fly, but failing miserably and dying an embarrassing and naked death in the deserts of south eastern California, only to be discovered later that same day by a nice family picnicking in the barren countryside on their way to Vegas?

Again, more lives... ruined.  I cannot die with the knowledge that I was responsible for a destroying someone's Vegas Vacation.

But the Number 1 Reason Why I'll Never Go Nude Sky Diving (after 1.  Because I won't and 1 1/2. Because there's no fucking way) is that it doesn't actually look like this:

Nude Skydivers
Pretty sexy girls jump out of a plane!  Yay!  Men are smiling down below!

Oh HAYELLLLL to the no.  It looks like THIS:

Oh. My. God.

I paid wayyyy too much for these boobs to pop them while jumping out of an airplane.