"I'm not sure she was too experienced," my mom said of the woman who had led her on horseback for her birthday hike.
I asked her why.
"Well, her saddle kept sliding to the side of the horse, making her almost fall off. I had to suggest to her that she tighten the straps."
"This woman works at the horse stables?" I asked.
"Uh-huh. She didn't even know she could tighten the saddle. Then there was the time that her horse went off trail to sniff something and she couldn't get it back on the trail. We got lost in the woods for about 15 minutes."
"Are you sure your guide wasn't really just some transient off the streets who grabbed a horse to run off with?"
"That would explain a lot," my mom said, "like that one time when she slid off the side and then could not hoist herself up onto the horse again by herself. Your dad had to get off his horse to give her a lift."
"This person sounds terrible at her job, Mom."
"Yeah. I actually regretted not wearing a helmet."
My mom's big New York hair does not get stuffed into hats or helmets or headgear of any kind. If she was willing to try a helmet, you know she must not have felt safe.
This was serious.
In addition to the horseback riding, my mom was given a certificate for fake skydiving for her birthday. Rather than your falling down through the air, in these wind chambers, the wind pushes you up. She had a blast. And it allowed her to knock something off her bucket list.
Ever since I went skydiving over 15 years previously, she had wanted to give it a shot, but on more than one occasion, she had canceled plans at the last minute. "What if the skydiver you jump tandem with is simply terrible at her job?" my mom would muse.
"Well, then enjoy the view before going splat."
Mom never liked that answer.
My skydiving tandem partner wasn't bad at his job, per se. I didn't go splat. But he was cruel. When he saw how scared I was — ready to vomit out a week's worth of food before we ever left the ground — he made it his mission for the duration of the 20-minute flight into the sky to tell me every single skydiving horror story he had ever heard. One was about a jumper who was sucked into the engine. It chopped him up — which caused the plane to go down, so all his friends aboard died, too. It probably wasn't true. In the moment, it definitely didn't matter.
I was terrified. I was enraged. I was vengeful. I wanted him to feel the same all-encompassing fear that I did. So I let him feel it the only way I knew how: I sang a Dixie Chicks song.
At the top of my lungs and entirely off-key, I belted, "If I fall, you're going down with me. ... You're going down with me, baby, heart and all."
I couldn't say whether he was scared, but I feel confident that I at least made him suffer.
My mom was pleased to share that her fake skydiving leader had made her feel completely at ease and safe. She didn't wear a helmet then, either.
Birthdays are tricky. With so much hype, there is so much room to be let down.
My parents still talk about the time my dad wanted to surprise my mom for her birthday with new fish for her beloved aquarium. He went to the pet store and explained the current inhabitants of the tank, and the store worker suggested fish to add some new color to the tank.
My mom loved her little neons. And by the time she got home on her birthday, all the neons had been gobbled up by the new "gift."
"Did you leave a bad review for the horse lady?" I asked my mom. She was a negative Yelp reviewer before Yelp was a thing. "Let me speak to your manager" might as well be her middle name.
"No," she said. "There was a silver lining. Nothing like fearing for your life while partaking in your birthday gift to make you feel glad you're still on this planet."
"That's one way to look at it," I said. "But wear a helmet from now on."
Katiedid Langrock is author of the book "Stop Farting in the Pyramids," available at http://www.creators.com/books/stop-farting-in-the-pyramids. Like Katiedid Langrock on Facebook, at http://www.facebook.com/katiedidhumor. To find out more about her and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate webpage at www.creators.com.
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