Braveheart. A Close Friend of Dorkheart.

So I'm listening to my kid talk, with glowing eyes and breathless breath, about some 8 foot rapids he and his scout-y youth group hit a week ago in Jackson, Wyoming, along with some cliffs they rappelled down. (He did not manage to go commando this time, which I have just learned does not mean rappelling in a skivvie-free state. Rather it means going down the cliff head first. Wah? I'd rather he went free to the wind, I think, than head-first down a sheer, bazillion-foot drop. Yeesh.) 

I sat there listening to him talk about all of this–as well as some other death-inducing stuff he's done–and realized that I have no guts. This boy did not inherit his love of defying gravity and common sense from me.

His father, on the other hand, inhabits a body that has so many scars on it from idiotic adventurous hobbies that he can't even remember where he got them all from. Yeah. Number One Son definitely got all of his chromosomes from his dad. Or at least the most dominant ones.

And I'm thinking that I am not pleased with my general wimpitiude. Oh, don't get me wrong, I've done some things. I've thrown myself down a few mountains with a couple of wooden slats strapped to my feet. Wasn't pretty. Crashed a lot. Went fishing in powder for my ski poles for like 45 minutes and came out hating the sport for the day. Was also once abandoned on Germany's highest peak in a blizzard and came out of that without a great love for olympic-type sports. But hey! The point is I did it, you know?

But does it count? What about this stuff:

I ran the St. George marathon, complaining and divorcing my husband through most of my long training runs (until I discovered that my body depletes glucose at unusually rip-snorting rates and I need to supplement. After I learned this I never divorced my husband again. Still complained, though. Not sure what to do about that.) 

I jumped into the rapids in Firehole river without more swimming skill than a mighty fine dog-paddle, and nearly drown. I drove little race cars around speedy little tracks in Atlanta, crashed, and didn't die. I gave birth to four children and did not shoot my doctor's toes off. Or the hub's. I climbed up sheer rock-faces with nothing between me and death but some rubberized climbing shoes, a man presumably in love with me acting as belayer, and enough chalk to supply the entire National Education Association for ten years. DOES THIS COUNT? AM I BRAVE? COOL? FULL OF CHUZPAH? Is there any chance whatsoever that my son got even the tiniest thimble-full of nerve from his mother?

I don't know. I DO stuff. But I do it, you know, vociferously. (Read: shrieking in terror the entire time. Also Read: And generally being a dork.)

Like, I once swung from a trapeze in Whistler, Canada suspended LOTS of feet above the ground (with a net, but we won't mention that so people will think I'm über brave), but I did it screaming, missing the bar, unable to get my legs up, and with Ms. Professional Trapeze Artist who was coaching me just barely able to keep the derision out of her voice. I even have video. Note the screaming and the "I can't! I can't!"'s:

Ahhh. A proud moment. I did finally manage to swing and get caught. But then…eep:

Sooo, okay. That was actually really fun. Maybe it isn't about being all cool and daring. Maybe it's okay to shriek and scream and act like an idiot. If bravery is all about doing stuff that scares the living shortcake out of you, despite the fact that it scares the living shortcake out of you, then I've totally got that. Scared and me? We're tight.

Freaked-Out Brave People of the World! Unite! I'll meet you in Whistler, and we can hang together. But don't ever ask me to, like, jump out of plane or something. I'm noisy, sometimes brave, always whiny, but so not STUPID.