Thin Line

I hate roller coasters.

That wasn’t always the case.

Thirteen years ago, my parents took my sister and me to Disney World. My father had been telling us stories about Disney World for years, all made up. He’d tell us that there would be buttons by our bedside and when we pressed them Smarties would fall down.

Our trip started in Paris and involved New York, Florida, Miami, and ended back in Paris. It was the best trip I ever took with my family. We went on every ride and made sure to maximize each day. I even got to celebrate my birthday in two different states. I remember quite a few of the rides but one of the most memorable is Space Mountain.

We didn’t know what we were getting into, we just eyed the extremely long line and figured it must be the best ride in the park. As we got closer to the ride, my parents got suspicious from the screaming and suggested that maybe we should go to another place. My sister and I whined about how long we’d already waited and how there was no way we were turning back now. And we didn’t. Our turn came and our car took two couples, one in front of the other. I opened my legs and my sister sat in front of me with my arms wrapped around her chest. My mom did the same to my dad.

If you’ve ever ridden Space Mountain, you’d know that the place is completely dark. You cannot even see your own hand. When we got off the ride, my mom said that for a second she was confidant that my dad’s heart had stopped as we did a huge dive. But I liked Space Mountain. It wasn’t scary. At least that’s not how I remember it.

By the time I made it back to United States, six years later, I had somehow done a complete 180. My boyfriend coaxed me to ride Steel Phantom and it was one of the worst experiences of my life. My head kept banging to the sides and I couldn’t understand the point of it. When Jake and I visited Florida, we rerode the Space Mountain and I hated it.

I’m not really sure what happened between 14 and 18, but scary events don’t seem to produce the exciting dose of adrenaline in me.

I don’t understand the joy of sitting on a piece of steel and having your body throttled around. Why is it such a rush? How come cutting it close is such a thrill? Does it make you cool if you die of something moronic like mountain climbing without proper equipment? Is it all to compensate for some other area of lacking? Or maybe it’s me who’s undercompensating. Maybe I’m running away from some bigger fear. I really don’t know the answers. All I know is that I hate motorcycles. I can’t stand roller coasters. I never felt the need to go bungee jumping. I don’t even watch scary movies. Nothing scary turns me on.

Except for jumping out of a plane.

But that’s a completely different story.

Previously? Noises.