Flygirl
by Jenna Schnuer
Fly Girl
A few hours underthe small top sends one writer (and her nerves)
soaring.
. Photographs by Justin Steele
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.
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