“Oh, you’ll enjoy it once you’re up there! You’ll toootally regret it now if you have to climb back down the unstable 30-foot ladder.” I was standing at the top of a tiny meter-square platform, where a small American girl was holding onto my harness to stop me from flinging myself off by accident, and another one of the instructors were climbing up to shout at me to make me move.

I would have been quite happy sat on the ground for the few hours of class, just watching other people as they hesitantly jumped off, a look on their face like they were going to crap their pants.  It was quite amusing watching the rest of the people in my class have their turns – a young Polish woman who shouted that her knees were shaking before she fell off, a girl who started yell-crying when her friend turned out to be better than her, a retired yet gorgeously muscular circus act show off to his equally muscular wife who’d had so many dermal fillers that I couldn’t tell if she was terrified or non-plussed, and a girl my age who had had four lessons prior and still couldn’t make a catch (pfft, what a loser, right?).

From the ground, it looked almost fun, as if it weren’t so high or so fast or completely at loss of control. But when one girl started crying uncontrollably after letting go tumbling messily down, I rethought the waiver they made me sign (which ensured that if I died a horrible Final Destination -esque death my family couldn’t sue), and I’m pretty sure that was when I started questioning my own sanity.

See, I’ve always thought that I have balls of steel. I’ve always been the sort of person to casually emit phrases like “oh, I want to do a skydive for Crohn’s Disease“, or “wouldn’t it be fun to bungee jump over a few hundred foot drop down by Oregon?” However, now, I was stood at the top of a little platform, having to lean over a 30-foot drop, with only my skinny white arms holding onto a bar stopping me from plummeting.

Eventually, I was tired of the instructor yelling at me, and did not fancy walking back down the ladder, so I had to reach over to grab the bar, and then I jumped.

I know, I know, I’ve never had better photos taken than these

And oh my god. If you’ve ever watched that scene in Sex and the City where Carrie tries out trapeze you may think that it’s this exciting, freeing feeling, flying through the air. But in all honesty, it’s the stuff of nightmares (actual, genuine, recurring nightmares). Turns out, I’m not a fan of holding onto this flimsy little bit of plastic going at a terrifying speed where I can’t do anything to stop it. Completely crazy, I know.

The first swing is the hardest, where you’re just hanging like a limp doll as the park flies past you, but then it gets easier. Eventually, it slowed down and I managed to pull myself up and over the bar, reaching out backwards to be caught, ending in a neat little backwards flip. The woman yelled instructions at me, as she was basically like “there is no way you’re getting off this goddam thing until you act like a seasoned professional”, and voila, I did it. Like, five times. My eyes were closed to stop myself from vomming at the height of it, but hey. If anything, the worst part was trying to get down because the Polish woman kept trying to add me on Instagram.

Would I do it again? Maybe, so that I could just show off to friends or get some badass photos for my Insta. Either way, whoever says it’s “freeing” or “fun” or “carefree” is a damn liar, and should not be trusted.

BEFORE YOU GO – WHY NOT SHARE THE LOVE AND PIN THIS POST?