Trapeze School New York | black metal thing sticking | Justin Steele | writer

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Fly Girl

A few hours underthe small top sends one writer (and her nerves) soaring.

.  Photographs by Justin Steele

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With just two rungs to go, I'm stuck. The ladder, the sort normally propped against a house by a painter, is leaning against a blue-carpeted platform that is 23 feet in the air. The platform has no walls and, aside from a wobbly looking (or so it seems) black metal thing sticking up from it, offers no apparent place to hold on.

"What do I do now?" In my not-panicked-but-not-exactly-clear-thinking state, it seems like a perfectly reasonable question.

"Keep climbing," says the instructor, peering down at me with a bit of an amused grin from atop the platform.

Gee, thanks.

"Can I grab that?" I ask, pointing at the black metal thing.

"Yes."

Well, that's really all he had to tell me in the first place.

I have been at trapeze school for less than 30 minutes, and already I have dealt with my two odd fears: stepping over the top of a ladder and anything that reminds me of grade school gym class (just the thought of the President's Challenge Physical Fitness Test is enough to send this 35-year-old back to bed with a pretend fever).

Before you consider me brave for challenging my fears, let me admit to one thing: Going to trapeze school was not my idea. But when my editor asked if I would, the I'll-do-anything-for-a-story part of me (coupled with the lingering determination of a younger sister who, as a kid, was constantly challenged by her older brother) kicked in, and, within minutes, I was on the phone with Trapeze School New York, setting up my high-flying lesson.