I’m not what one would call a “hardy” sort of person. I am often bedridden for a week after a twenty minute Pilate workout and I suffer from self-diagnosed hypochondria. Really. According to my Google research, I’ve had just about every disease under the sun, except, I haven’t. I just worry that I have brain cancer until the next morning when I panic that I have stomach cancer instead.
This is why I was so surprised when I turned into Super Woman during my trip to New Zealand.
So Miss Tizzy did the closest thing to a bungee jump that she will ever do. “Pics or it didn’t happen!” you say? Ha, well fortunately, I have plenty of pictures. So take that.
Look. At. That. Face. You can just sense the utmost excitement that is rushing through my veins! In case you didn’t detect my sarcasm, I should note, that that particular sentence was dripping with sarcasm.
I felt like my stomach was falling out of my skin during that initial drop. Meanwhile, I look like a witch riding a broom because I’m clutching onto the Go Pro for dear life.
Then there was Zorbing. The only satisfying moment from that experience was the fact that they gave me a certificate. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with it, but a certificate is a certificate, damn it!
The bungee jump of 40 metres was a delightful stroll in the park compared to this suffocation ball. Imagine a big ball (stop there, you naughty scamp) that has been sitting in the sun for three hours. Inside is boiled water that other people have splashed around in. Then try to nosedive through a tiny hole without getting your bottom stuck halfway. As soon as you get in, you realise that there is no chance of fresh oxygen finding its way in. You’re trapped in a tiny, circular area with water up to your stomach. Then some bastard starts pushing you down a hill. Faster. And faster. So fast that you find your face glued to the surface with warm, murky water rushing into every orifice. To top it all off, once my mind stopped screaming at me, convincing me that I was going to die, the ball stopped rolling and a new bastard came and shoved a camera in my face, telling me to give the thumbs up. I did not comply. I smiled once and then fought the urge to cry. I felt very sorry for hamsters that day.
The Skydiving Simulator was not as bad as the Zorbing, but it was worse than the bungee jump. I discovered that I have a real fear of not being able to breathe after my trip to New Zealand. Once I was on this fan, I realised I could only exhale (and not inhale) so I hopped off after what I thought was fifteen minutes of agony. It was in fact, an experience that lasted only 28 seconds.
28 seconds too long, I say.
So, I’m happy that I can look back and say that at 21 years of age, I did all of those things. I hated it, but I did it. After my Daredevil adventures, I spent most of the trip at Spookers, Wicked, eating in a rotating restaurant, on ferry rides, looking at volcanos, drinking milkshakes, visiting Hobbiton, a quick trip to the doctors because I convinced myself I had a bladder infection and luging.
Much more my pace.
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