The following anecdotes I leave for you here are all true stories from my own life, told through a light-hearted slant. Enjoy!
When I was a toddler and up until I was about 7 years old, I was convinced that flight existed somewhere within my realm of possibilities. The answer seemed simple. If I just flapped my arms hard enough, I would be off my feet and on my way in no time. I jumped from chairs. I jumped from the dining room table. Once, I even tried to crawl up the bookcase and jump from there. However, my mom spotted this before I reached the top, and quickly began what can only be described as a very decent imitation of a baboon first introduced to espresso. After screeching some manner of inane babble at me, she removed me from the vicinity of the bookcase and returned me to the floor.
This was when I first realized something was up (and it wasn't me). My arms wouldn't flap hard enough. I couldn't jump from high enough. My own mother even seemed to mock my dreams of flight. (Her psychological processes absolutely befuddled me. I never broke my neck doing anything.)And then one day I learned the awful truth.
There exists this force in the world called "gravity". Apparently, it hated me. It didn't matter to gravity how hard I flapped, how high I jumped or how badly I longed to fly. I would always get to know the ground better than I would like as I landed on my face one day and split my bottom lip.
Now, if a scar bedecking the lower right side of my mouth is not evidence enough gravity is out to get me, you can read on to my next post. It is the true story of my perpetual struggle with gravity and his accomplice: The Stairs.
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