Worry, worry, super-scurry...

What inspires me today...

New Heights.

I hate surprises.

I usually find that the joy and rush of adrenaline most feel coursing through their veins when faced with a good 'ol surprise is replaced with a bone-chilling dread.  A sort of hybrid of anxiety and terror. 

Surprise parties are the worst.
Generally I become very quiet.  Happy, but fully unable to interact.  Sometimes I cry.

Number 8 on my bucket list was satisfied Saturday morning by a complete and utter surprise at 2:30 in the morning.   After a four hour drive and instant confusion when faced with a white van with the tinted windows bearing worn and peeling lettering reading, "Magical Adventures," a giant wicker basket in tow, I still had no idea what was going on.  The tarps were laid out, and finally giant colorful bundles were unrolled...

Mixing a fear of heights with a hatred for surprises made for a shockingly delightful birthday.

Mike, the pilot, and I wore matching denim shirts.  I think we hit it off pretty well.  He was in his late fifties, a retired air force pilot who has been flying balloons for over 20 years.  Clearly he wanted a photo of he and I on his iPhone after the champagne toast prior to the completion of our aviation feat.  Clearly I obliged.

Excuse me, I misspoke earlier.  You cannot "fly" a hot air balloon.  You simply float, at the mercy of the wind.  Interestingly, this seemingly terrifying concept made for a very calm and peaceful experience.  There wind simply carried us.  No turbulence in fight, none of the worry or fear you may find in a plane (where you supposedly have full control).  Landing spots aren't planned ahead of time, just found.   Maybe life is flight, and maybe the ride would be more enjoyable if we all just learned to float.

Or maybe we should all wear more denim and drink more champagne.

Either way, both options would drastically improve the state of the world.

(I have truly amazing friends.)