My hair and I have a love-hate relationship though, to be honest, it tends toward the hate side. My locks have been unruly since my hair first started growing and it seems evident that they will stay that way until it stops.

As soon as my hair was long enough, my forehead was adorned with a single, silky curl. It grew from there, reaching beyond my hips within a few years. By then, it was a long, carefree, tangled mess. It lost its wispiness and was now full on crazy. I still remember sitting in front of my couch before going to daycare, my mom yanking a brush through my matted hair.

She told me stories of her mom doing the same thing and telling her that she was screaming “so loud all of the neighbors can hear”. I got my dark, curly hair from my mom. Though hers is so dark some consider it black, it is our most similar feature. It is actually one of our only similar features. Our curly hair seems to be so defining that, despite our dissimilarities, people always say we look a lot alike.

I hated getting my hair brushed, and I would complain so much she threatened to cut my hair off many times. Once at the age of five, after seeing my friend with an adorable bob haircut, I begged my mom to give the same to me. I was so naïve, unaware of the horrors of short, un-layered curly hair. I looked like the woman from the Dilbert cartoons for a year.

At the moment, my hair hits just above my shoulders. There are clear “s” patterns along my temples, formed from coaxing my curls into finger waves for last spring’s play. Beneath that, the pattern is much less predictable. My ringlets are nowhere near as perfect as they used to be. The only control comes from an arsenal of hair products. There are products to tame frizz and products to define the curls. Most of the time, it is pulled back in a ponytail or bun to hide the craziness it has become. I still have a hard time believing that people spend loads of money to make their hair curly. Anyone is welcome to have mine.

For many people, the thrill that is experienced when one breaks the law is a very pleasurable and addictive sensation. It’s possible that a similar sensation is evoked from simply watching someone break the law, especially when that person is seemingly unlikely to do so. The popularity and high acclaim of the television series Breaking Bad could certainly show testament to this statement. But of course, the plot of this show is not the only factor that has driven this series to such insurmountable success. Along with the plot, the character interaction, character development, and moral ambiguity that is portrayed in Breaking Bad all play significant roles in the success of this series.

Breaking Bad is set in Albuquerque, New Mexico in a middle-class suburb. Walter White, a high school chemistry teacher, learns he has stage 3A lung cancer and is given a maximum of two years to live. Having experienced financial issues for years, Walter is worried about leaving his unemployed wife, disabled son, and newborn baby in an overwhelming amount of debt. Through a series of events, Walter is exposed to the methamphetamine drug trade and the amount of money that can be made. He conjures up the idea of producing and selling the drug in order to leave his family financially sound. After seeing an old student of his, Jesse Pinkman, and his involvement in the drug trade, an unlikely business partnership is made. The rest of the series follows the challenges the two undergo and the results of Walter’s decision to sell meth.

The relationship between Walter and Jesse is dysfunctional to describe it mildly. However, it is one that captures the attention of its audience and leaves viewers wondering what will happen next. Walter and Jesse have virtually no common ground. Jesse is a careless, ignorant, meth addict with, ironically, very little knowledge of producing methamphetamine. Walter, on the other hand, is a meticulous, yet desperate chemist. Walter fulfills Jesse’s needs because he knows the chemistry needed to produce very pure, high-grade meth. Jesse provides Walter with inside connections and knowledge of unspoken rules of the drug trade. However, the two hardly ever get along. Jesse’s carelessness causes many detrimental events and setbacks to the progress of the plan. For example, after Walter and Jesse drive out to the desert in their RV to cook two pounds of meth, Jesse, without thinking, leaves the key in the ignition which drains the battery. The two are stuck out in the desert with no contact and very little food. After Walter attempts to jumpstart the RV, a fire ignites and once again, Jesse’s carelessness intrudes. He dumps their entire water supply on the fire, leaving them stuck, without food or water. Mistakes like these occur frequently, creating a very defective, high-stress relationship between the two characters. This relationship, and the basis for the relationship, makes for an extremely intriguing and unpredictable interaction.

As the series develops, the audience watches dramatic changes in Walter’s personality. In the very first episodes, Walter comes off as a shy, contained family man, without the conscious ability to run a red light, let alone sell a high grade narcotic. Walter seems to lack confidence. Flashbacks of Walter’s younger ages show a strong, successful chemist with a bright future ahead of him. However, after being betrayed by his partner, Walter loses his company, and with it, his confidence. Walter is now passive and quiet, and tends to be walked on by others, especially by his brother-in-law. He resorts to working as a teacher at a public high school for which he is overqualified. His life seems to have spun to a center of mediocrity while his talents and knowledge show far more promise. The news of his lung cancer seems to be a waking call for Walter. The more he suffers from his cancer and the deeper he falls into the drug trade, the more aggressive and confident Walter becomes. His transformation from a calm, reserved high school teacher to an aggressive drug dealer, capable of murder, truly adds substance and development to the series. This certainly has helped Breaking Bad receive the acclaim it has earned.

The single factor for which Breaking Bad has received much acclaim is the moral ambiguity of Walter White. Walter begins his involvement in methamphetamine producing and distributing so he can earn money for his family before he passes away. Audiences tend to support Walter for getting involved in a risky business so he can leave his family with the financial support that they need. However, as Walter becomes more dedicated and involved in his new endeavor, his intentions and motivation to continue selling meth begin to blur. The nature of his work forces him to lie to his family, which becomes apparent to his wife, Skylar. This causes issues within their marriage and eventually leads them to a divorce. Also, due to the commitment of his work, he begins to spend less and less time with his family and even misses the birth of his daughter, Holly, so that he can follow through with a drug trade. The reason for which he begins selling meth becomes the very same thing he begins to neglect: his family. Even more shocking is the fact that even after the divorce, Walter continues to fall deeper and deeper into the trade. Audiences tend to support Walter’s initial reasoning for becoming a drug dealer, however, it seems he becomes attached to the thrill of the lifestyle and the rewards that can be obtained. He becomes a man willing to do nearly anything, including murder, in order to keep his positioning within the practice. Even after he has earned more than enough money to support his family’s needs and wants he is still reluctant to abandon his new lifestyle. It is as if his family is no longer the main priority. He simply is addicted to his new way of life. This change in moral standings creates ambiguity within the character and forces the audience to question Walter’s intentions and priorities.

Breaking Bad has received multiple Emmys and stands as one of the most popular television shows of the past few years. This dark drama series utilizes character interaction and development to capture the attention of its audience. Breaking Bad adds to its compelling plot by creating ambiguity within its main character, Walter. All these factors combine to conjure up an incredible drama that is just as addictive as the drug it portrays.

(all images courtesy AMC)

Every day when I get home from school, the first place I go is my bedroom.  After my sister moved out of the house, I took over her old room, which is directly across the hall from mine.  Before I moved all of my belongings from my old room, my dad and I spent a few days repainting the walls.  I chose black and purple.  The dark colors, which may make the room appear smaller, are soothing to me.  The black and purple contrast with the white blinds covering the window on the back wall, and also with the white carpet.

However, the white carpet is hardly ever seen—or vacuumed—due to the fact that it is most often covered with clothes.  Even though I spend so much time in my room, I rarely muster up the energy to clean it.  In fact, the untidiness of the room earned it the nickname “The Cave.”  The remainder of my clothing—the clothing not bunched up on the floor—is found in the drawers of two dressers, which are located next to the door.  Since I am often in a hurry in the morning, I usually just rip a shirt out the drawer, leaving the drawer with hanging open with other shirts dangling out of it.  Sometimes, when I get home, I’ll tidy up the drawer enough so it will close.  Other times, it will just hang open with clothes still pouring out onto the floor.

The mess is deceiving though.  The room is not a total pigsty; at least it doesn’t smell as bad as it looks.  On top of the dressers are numerous bottles of perfumes and Bath and Body Works brand room sprays.  The overall smell—though I am quite used to it and hardly notice it anymore—happens to be the Twilight Woods scented Bath and Body Works spray.

I also have many of my shirts hanging up in the closet across my room from the dressers.  The rod is bowed in the middle because of the weight of my clothing.  Sometimes, I feel too lazy to hang up all of my freshly washed shirts, so they end up living on my bed in somewhat neat piles—I keep them on the right side, since I usually sleep on the left side of the bed.

My bed stands tucked away in the little nook between my closet and the back wall of my room.  The purple sheets and the bright, multicolored bedspread match the walls perfectly.  When I first come into my room, I immediately make my way toward my bed.  It makes a great place to do my homework after school; I can relax while I focus on getting my work done.  Sleeping at night is so easy for me ever since the walls were repainted—the darkness feels cozy and relaxing to me—and ever since I got a new mattress.  It compares to sleeping on a cloud.  Every morning after my alarm goes off, it is very difficult to force myself to leave the warmth and comfort my bed provides.  But I know I will come back to it later, since I lie in bed every night and watch LA Ink, or Ghost Hunters, on my 32 inch TV that sits on a stand directly across the room.  Both the TV and the stand are covered with layers of dust; on the rare occasion that I do straighten up the room, I always forget to dust and vacuum.

In spite of the seemingly perpetual mess, my room is my comfort zone.  I love the comfortable feeling I get from the dark colors of the walls, and way the bright colors of my bedspread express my personality.  It’s the one room of the house that I can call my own space.  My bedroom—my Cave—is my favorite place to be.

“I love you sixteen- five-twenty,” my four year old sister Maggie chirps as I walk in the door every afternoon. After a long day of high school, this is exactly what I need to hear. The soft pitter-patter of her quick footsteps tells me that she will prance, smiling, around the corner sometime within the next 5 seconds. Each day, I find her dressed in a different costume. One day it might be an old tutu of mine, the next it might be an Easter dress from two years ago, the hem of which comes to her knees. Occasionally I will find her wearing what appears to be every article of clothing that she owns; but no matter what outfit she’s chosen, she is the most beautiful person I know.

Maggie has straight blonde hair that falls to her shoulders. Her pale, soft skin is flawless, and freckles dot her tiny nose. Her big brown eyes sparkle under stunningly long eyelashes. Every tear that falls from those eyes breaks my heart. Nothing makes me feel worse than Maggie’s big sad baby tears. On the bright side, the tears she sheds are few and far between as she is generally a happy person.

From her made-up words like “brush-teeth (tooth brush), jamajis (pajamas), and bresket (breakfast)” to her wonderful knock-down hugs, Maggie brightens my every day. She will be the first to tell you that her boyfriend is Troy Bolton from the High School Musical movies and that she loves life because “God made me like that.” I couldn’t imagine life without her and I’m so blessed to have such a joyful person in my life.

Andrea Hunt walks out to my car. She walks with a particular gait, as though she is bouncing with each step she takes. She often does not even walk to get from place to place. She cartwheels, runs, somersaults, and skips as she makes her way though life. Now she is half running, half skipping her way to my car. She is adorned in one of her usual mismatched outfits, a collection of camouflage and tie-dye, that often get her strange looks when in public, and I again marvel at how unconcerned she is with how others perceive her. She catapults into my car, her bags exploding her things all over the back seat. She plugs her iPod into my car stereo, blasting her music before turning to me to inform me of her latest life adventure.

She has flaxen hair that falls slightly below her shoulders; it frames her wide happy face that makes my day every time I see it. She has the build of a volleyball player, because of the cult/ team she is part of, and golden skin from her summer spent lying on her dock. When she tells a story she talks, not only with her hands, but also with her entire body, gesturing wildly as she reenacts what has happened. She sits in the seat beside mine, rooting through her bag while telling me her story, unloading what seems to be her entire life onto the floor of my car.

Andrea is not a subtle human; she is loud, boisterous and hard to miss. I glance at her beside me, her purple sunglasses pushing her hair out of her laughing face, her hands still rooting around in her bag for her white sunglasses case, her strawberry scent invading my car. She is insouciant.

Every 16 year old experiences it -that one magical day, the incredible rush of putting those new keys into the ignition, and pulling out of the driveway as your parents look on, trying to hide their panic. No matter what shape it’s actually in, that first vehicle is glorious. It is a glowing beacon of that oh so elusive freedom that every teenager has been hungering for forever. To me, that is my van, named Anyanka. She is a symbol of my growth and independence, and also a representation of myself.

Anyanka’s name was chosen by Flanny Johnson and me, after a character in our mutual favorite guilty pleasure show, Buffy the Vampire Slayer. The Anyanka on the show was a hilarious former vengeance demon. She was great and loveable, but she also had a hot temper, which has proven to be the exactly case with the van Anyanka as well.

Anyanka is a 2002 Dodge caravan. She is stout and maroon, with plenty of rust, and an engine that is constantly threatening to fail me. She’s constantly clunking, roaring, and jerking around, and her brakes have failed me twice.  Every time I go up a hill, I just pray that she will manage to make it, as she clumsily switches gears and jumps around, scaring me half to death.

However, for the most part, she gets me where I need to go, and I still love and appreciate her as much as I did the first day I was given her keys. She represents my freedom and my parents’ trust in my responsibility. Even though she may just seem to be a mode of transportation, she’s really so much more. She allows me to tell my parents where I’m going, rather than asking them to take me there. She has been instrumental in my transition from child to young adult. Not just this, but she is also an extension of my personality.

A vibrant color on the outside, she’s a little worn looking, but still a cheerful cherry red. Her inside is cluttered and messy, a little dirty, but warm and comfy for the most part. She can go fast, but really does better with low speeds, and has trouble with changing terrain, and steep obstacles. Ultimately, though, she can usually scale those hills and skirt around those tight turns. We are very alike all of those ways.

Anyanka is flawed, of course, but she is my freedom and independence condensed into car form, and I am extremely grateful to have her as my vehicle.

Gunnar is my 14 year old little brother. He’s about 3 inches taller than me and has blonde hair and blue/green eyes like mine. Sometimes when I look at him I feel proud that he’s my brother. He’s pretty smart and holds himself well. He’s good at sports, gets good grades in school, and he even knows how to play guitar and control his still changing , adolescent voice. Though sometimes he makes what I call “stupid boy mistakes” and treats me like dirt every now and then, I can’t help but love him. He’s my mini me. But the guy version. He’s my blood and family and he means the world to me. Sometimes I even feel like protecting him like a mother. It’s a little embarrassing.

Every now and then I like to be super extra nice to Gunnar by letting him be a lazy growing teenager while I make him whatever food he wants in the kitchen and letting him watch whatever he wants on the TV. Making him feel good makes me feel good. One time, he got a cut on his leg from a shard of glass digging deep alongside the surface of his white, hairy skin. Having worked on a fishing boat with a lot of injuries from hook snags and whatnot, Gunnar thought that he knew the proper techniques for tending to this wound. But this time, Gunnar needed help. My help. I had in mind how I was going to take care of the wound, but Gunnar had his own, slightly caveman-ish idea of how he wanted me to go about dressing his gash. It involved a pad of gauze and some duct tape. Not exactly a 21^st century way of tending to a home cut. Standing in the bathroom, dripping blood all over the white floor, poking his bloody hands about the mirror cabinets looking for what would regularly find in his first aid kit aboard the charter fishing boat, Gunnar, irritated, called for my assistance. I told him to sit down and put a bunch of pressure on his bleeding gash with a wet wash cloth that I handed him. I started getting out the band aids and some Neosporin-the only things this wound would require if dressed properly. But seeing the selected tools, Gunnar started yelling at me in frustration, saying “No! That’s not good enough! I know how to take care of cuts, Greta. I work on a fricken fishing boat. This stuff happens all the time. Just do what I tell you.” Trying to explain the mediocrity in his idea of how to tend to the wound didn’t stop him from yelling at me, so I finally just gave in and did what he told me. After wrapping his cut in gauze and duct tape, Gunnar retired to his spot on the couch, and I took a shower. This gave us each about half an hour to cool off from his yelling fit over his gash. Thinking about how terrible having gauze and duct tape around your leg would be, I put on my nurse hat and walked out to the dozed teenager with my band aids and Neosporin. I carefully took off his blood soaked duct tape creation and wiped his cut clean. I squeezed a bunch of Neosporin all over the cut and carefully put three band aids across it. And it was perfect. He asked “That’s it?” “That’s it.” I said, and walked away. I took care of my baby brother, and it felt good.

I love him to pieces though sometimes he’s really just a stupid boy. But he’s my stupid boy, and I’m glad I have him at all.

When I was eleven years old I moved with my parents to a petite summer cottage nestled in the woods in Northern Michigan. We were downsizing from a large, elegant brick home in an affluent Rochester Hills neighborhood to a house half its size that had no basement, attic or garage. The cottage had rough-cut cedar walls that gave you splinters if you touched them, unevenly-faded shag carpet that was worn and stained from the years of children and pets that visited every summer, and creaky floors, doors, and windows. I was embarrassed at my new home’s meager kitchen with bright orange countertops, 1970′s harvest décor, and minuscule bedrooms. Not only was I leaving the comforts of my childhood home, but I was saying “good-bye” to all that gave me comfort and stability, including my school, my belongings, and my friends. It was an emotionally painful move, mostly due to the fact that I was forced to sell, store, or throw out so many of my belongings. It was only one of several moves I was about to make.

We had not finished unpacking the last of our possessions when we traveled a half-day’s drive to visit family for the holidays. It was a brisk and snowy night in my sixth-grade year when we returned home five days later, our stomachs satisfied from our Thanksgiving feast. The drive was long and treacherous after a blizzard had ripped through the area just days earlier. We unpacked the car and stomped through the snow to then struggle with the warped front door, which stubbornly opened only after lots of tugging. My mother was the first to enter the house. She stepped foot through the door and stood still for a moment, frozen by what was inside. As I slowly made my way to the door, arms full of pillows and a duffel bag, I heard a gentle moving sound, something like a babbling brook. I saw what had stunned my mother. Water was everywhere.

As we silently entered the house, I stepped into three inches of frigid water that covered the newly-installed hickory floors. Our precious oriental rugs were saturated with crystal-clear water that poured like a fountain from the floor above. I looked up at the open wound in the bathroom ceiling as it spewed water, bits of drywall, and wallpaper onto the sink and cabinet below. I walked around the corner to find water spilling like sheets of glass down the living room wall. The once-golden cedar walls were now black. The water was seeping through the ceiling and fell like raindrops onto the piano and furniture below. We reached the second floor to find a pipe had burst, flooding our home and dousing the flame in the furnace.  That frightful night was the beginning of an adventure that would uproot me seven more times that year.

Compassionate neighbors gave us beds to sleep in while we searched for more permanent lodging.  Two weeks later another kind neighbor came to our rescue and allowed us to rent their luxurious Cape Cod-style home while our home was being renovated. We celebrated Christmas and endured the long winter in that house, but were once again forced to vacate when our neighbors returned for the summer.

My parents found a charming old house to rent for the next five weeks that was only two blocks from my new school. It was great fun to invite my new classmates back to my house after school to drop our books and skip to the village ice cream shop for afternoon treats. As much as we enjoyed living in that house, we were forced to vacate once again when already-committed renters moved in.

For a third time, different neighbors offered us their home. For the next three weeks, we lived out of boxes and suitcases while we waited for construction to be completed on our home. In July, we lived in a summer resort area on Lake Michigan and when the owners came back, there were no more places to rent. We had no other option but to camp in our driveway for the final month of our adventure. This time was the most difficult because I  was struggling to adjust to living with so little.

My parents and I made do with what we had. We learned to live with less and less with each move. I found that we could not have made it through that difficult year without the kindness of the many people that gave us shelter, brought us meals, helped us pack and moved us over and over again. I learned how live through constant change and uncertainty. Although it was overwhelming and unsettling, I became flexible, and learned to appreciate what I have at the moment and to let go of what I don’t have control over. As painful as that year was, I look back on it fondly as a year of great adventure and personal growth. I moved back into my newly-renovated home, with all of its new doors, windows, walls, and floors. I am grateful for every bit of it. Now, five years later, I still cherish all that was new back then.

Sirens howled. Lights flashed. I glanced across the cabin’s divider and shot my partner Kyle a thumbs up. This was our last examination, our last obstacle to surmount before we could officially be christened with the title of “Firefighter.”

The truck we were riding in skidded to a halt and both Kyle and I bailed out of our assigned doors, moving rapidly toward the training tower. We began checking each other’s equipment and air tanks, to make absolutely sure we had enough breathing air for our task. I slapped the back of Kyle’s tank as he returned the gesture with a tap on the top of my helmet. We were ready to begin.

We moved up to the door, dropped into a low crouch, and pushed our way into the swirling darkness of the tower, staying close to the walls so as to not lose our sense of direction. Kyle led us down a long hallway, sweeping his hand in front of him so he could identify objects that were blocking our path. I placed my right hand firmly on Kyle’s left boot so as not to lose him in the darkness, and I began to sweep my left leg in long arcs across the floor to search for anything that Kyle had missed in his primary search.

We pressed slowly on, climbing over couches, sliding around corners, and ascending a small flight of stairs, all without being able to see anything more than two inches in front of our faces due to the thick, heavy smoke.

Kyle and I would crawl for thirty to forty seconds before we would stop and yell “FIRE DEPARTMENT. IS ANYONE IN HERE?” Immediately after our shout, we would hold our breath so we could pick out the faintest cry for help coming from deeper inside the structure.

We heard nothing, so we kept moving through the interior of the dark tower. I started using the butt end of my axe to extend my reach as I swept my arm across the floor, hoping that I would hit the victim we were supposed to find before our air ran out. I was approaching half a tank and Kyle had even less air than I did.

Minutes later, as Kyle and I began contemplating turning back and sending in the second search team, my axe thudded into a soft object. “Hey Kyle, hang on a second” I shouted into his ear. I reached over and touched the lump I had hit. It was a hand! “Yo, Jared, approaching 25%” Kyle yelled. “I’ve got the victim” I shouted back, “let’s get him and get out of here!”

Kyle moved to the head of the victim and I lifted the victim’s legs, dropping them over my shoulders. “I push, you pull” I told Kyle. I looped my axe through my SCBA’s shoulder strap as Kyle began a countdown. “Three…..Two…..One….NOW!” “Three…..Two….One…” And with that we began our long and exhausting trek back to the outside world.

We backtracked down the stairs, around a kitchen island, and over a couch, all to the cadence of “Three….Two….One…” I began to have the hope that we would make it back to our entry point without having to radio the Rapid Intervention Team for help, but my hopes were soon dashed as I heard a sound that made my blood go cold; the buzzing sound of a low air alarm.

I frantically groped in the dark for my air gauge. It read 30%. “Kyle, how…..much air….you got” I managed to squeeze out through my labored breathing. His voice told me how frightened he really was. I’ve got…oh man…uhh 15%.”

We still had about 70 feet to go until we made it to the door and the safety of the outside air. I tugged on Kyle’s shoulder strap and calmly told him “we can go if you need to, or we can get this guy out ourselves. You have the low air, so you decide. Either way, I’m staying with you.” He looked at me and I at him. After what seemed like ages, he coolly said “I can make it. Let’s finish this.”

We picked up where we had left off, heaving the victim along. Soon my face mask began vibrating and buzzing. An angry red light flashed on my heads up display announcing that I too had passed the magical mark of 25% air level in my tank. “Twenty-five percent” I yelled to Kyle. “I’m at eight-percent” he shouted back. “We need to go faster!”

At that moment, the door in front of us blasted open, and flashlight beams illuminated the space. Two members of the Rapid Intervention Team dove into the hallway and grabbed the victim from us. One of them yelled “GET OUT! THE BUILDING IS COMING DOWN!”

We slid out the door behind the RIT team and tore off our masks, sucking down the fresh outside air. I turned to Kyle and was about to congratulate him when my fire Chief began speaking to us. He said “That was excellent boys. Very nicely done. I was especially impressed when you had to make the decision to stay or go and you decided to stick together, stay calm, and work as a team. Congratulations, you both passed.”

I looked over at Kyle. He had a gigantic grin plastered on his face. It was at that moment that I realized I could never have achieved my goal of becoming a firefighter without my buddies. They supported me, and I helped to shape them. My hard work would have been for naught if I had gone into my final test without my team behind me, and as I realized this, I finally understood the camaraderie of firemen. It’s not a single person’s effort that gets the task completed, but the combined brains and brawn of a dedicated team behind everyone. I knew, at that moment, teamwork had saved me.

My little tan car rolls up to the little tan building. After about two hours of traveling, we’ve finally arrived. After a month of anticipation, my father and I are finally at the office of the skydiving company. I step out of the car, my heart already pounding hard enough that it almost hurts. To my right, I see the smallest, shabbiest plane I have ever seen, and as I walk into the office, I see a cluttered mess, several bleary eyed employees, and an overworked and rather unfriendly woman behind the desk. The tiny office is separated by a foldable divider from a financial agency, where we can hear every word spoken as Karen advises her customer on his savings. After paying and sitting awkwardly on a tattered couch for a while, my father and I learn that the second instructor is, in fact, missing. Trevor, the first instructor, takes another woman up, despite the fact that we arrived before her, and we are left waiting once again. This whole operation seems to be so shoddy that we are considering leaving and calling another company. I think to myself, if this second instructor is so unreliable that he shows up over an hour late to work, do I really want to jump out of plane with him? After consideration, I decide that since it’s also his life he’s putting at risk, I doubt he would be too careless.

Trevor and the first customer return, and I begin to feel better after she exclaims and gushes about how incredible it was. “I never expected it to be so quiet!” She says, “It was so peaceful and beautiful up there!” A solid hour after our arrival, my instructor, Luther, decides to grace us with his presence. He is loud and overpoweringly extroverted and I’m the furthest thing from comfortable in his presence. My feelings don’t improve as we’re harnessed up and crammed into the duct-taped and unsteady looking plane. We take off, going higher and higher, until the view takes my breath away. I admire the lakes, islands, and how tiny the buildings look.

All of a sudden, I realize that although looking out at the ground is all fine and dandy, jumping out, and plummeting toward it is a whole different story. My mind freezes. I come to the realization that this is absolutely insane; why on earth would I willingly commit this act of insanity? I was going to have to back out, tell them I simply couldn’t do it. The next thing I know, I’m committed. I had not waited all this time to punk out now! People do this stuff every day! Before I know it, it’s show time. The pilot yells “door!” – a single syllable that almost stops my brain function altogether. Luther hoists open the door and my feet are dangling out, two miles above the earth’s surface. The next thing that I remember is seeing the plane as I tumble through the air. Without my permission, a scream comes from my lungs and is instantly swept away by the wind. After a few seconds, my terror is also swept away, leaving in its wake a thrilling pleasure. All of the events leading up to this moment dissolved and soared up and away. The unpleasant woman behind the desk, the less than reassuring appearance of the plane, they didn’t matter, because they had all brought me here, to this exact moment in time, and given me the most incredible feeling in the world.