My ribs after their rough encounter with the side of the tunnel I recently went to the wind tunnel in Raeford, North Carolina to perfect (ha!) my skydiving skills. In classic Bobbi style, I not only do not arrive the proscribed thirty minutes early, I am over an hour late for my booked ten minutes, ten minutes I have been informed will be used by someone, not me, although I will be the one paying, if I'm not there, STAT! So I run in, late and flustered, and get debriefed on the way in to the tunnel. I struggle with my ear plugs as I shrug on my jumpsuit and then put my helmet on, yes, backwards at first as always. Knee pads are in place and I have no idea what Greg is trying to tell me, something about crossing my arms, falling in, and grabbing the net once I get inside. Thank God I begin to doubt my ability to comprehend Greg's charades, and I ask him to clarify about grabbing the net. Apparently, I am NOT supposed to grab it; he smacks my hands as a reminder. I
A thinking woman's blog