Falling at a rate of twenty-two feet-per-second.

It'd been two weeks since I changed the sheets and today seemed as good a day as any. I ripped off the striped flannel number and threw it to the floor. As I tossed my copper-colored Egyptian cottons over the mattress with a flick of the wrists I couldn't help but notice what it looked like as it landed: an inflated parachute, held "air buoyant" by the elastic around the edges. Maybe the parachute association was a result of the fact that I'm reading a book about Delta Force, an elite airborne Special Forces unit that specializes in counter-terrorism. Whatever the case may be it instantly made me think of those rare and beloved days in elementary school gym class where the teacher (who was more of an attendance-taker with a whistle) would bring the massive red-and-white-striped parachute out from her mysterious closet where various types of balls, scooters, and other potentially dangerous sporting implements were kept. We'd form a large circle, take hold of the parachute with our two overly excited hands, and spread out until it was taut. Then the order was given to lift simultaneously and run underneath the inflated tent, quickly turning around and kneeling on the spots where our hands had once been. We were supposed to be impressed once inside this rose-tinted parallel universe. Truthfully, though I'm not sure why, we were. Was it the fact that we were hiding inside something we'd created? Perhaps, though I think it may have had more to do with that for those brief seconds we were out of sight from any authority figure, which is rare at that age for most children. But alas, the gym teacher would blow her obnoxious whistle to cease any giggling or general uproar before telling us to come back out from underneath the parachute. This always proved to be a free-for-all since once our knees stopped holding down the edge of the 'chute there was no way to keep it afloat. It collapsed on those who weren't able to make it out from under in time. Nine times out of ten it was the same kid who was still fumbling around beneath the haggard silk, and not because he was too stupid to find his way out. The class clown always went for that easy laugh since he didn't get the attention at home. The class clown was never an only child. The class clown wound up being the one who made lots of mascara run ten years later, one way or another. I, on the other hand, was the first one out of the 'chute, and also a late bloomer who blossomed at seventeen and quickly wilted. That mascara ran for me as well, though not for the same reasons. Sometimes it still runs. Some say I'm still running. True to character I digress. But what else is there? A parachute and an ironically overweight gym teacher who was obviously of a persuasion that we didn't know existed at that innocent age. The post-game assessment is simple: I should've taken my time crawling out.