When I was very young, maybe four years old, I had a swingset. Or maybe not. Now that I think about it, I'm not sure whether it had swings, but I do know that it had monkey bars. So at the very least, I had a monkeyset. Anyway, at that point in my life I was still relatively new to the monkey bars, and had not yet traversed the stunningly vast distance (~6 feet) that they covered. Or rather, I had never done so alone. One day, while all alone, I decided to do it. So I climbed up the two rungs that led up from the ground, and I began my journey.
One monkey bar.
Two monkey bars.
Three...
Shit.
I was stuck. My tiny little arms just weren't strong enough to continue. The only problem was that at that point in my life, I was only barely taller than I am now. I probably measured in at around 3 feet, and as a result, I couldn't touch the ground. That left upwards of two feet between my feet and the ground. As far as I knew, it was too far of a fall to survive. So I hung on, hoped for rescue, and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
I can't remember how long I waited or whether anyone came to my rescue, but that isn't really relevant to the story, so I'll skip it. Today, I climbed to the top of Macau Tower at a height of 338 meters (1,108 feet) attached my safety harnesses, leaned back, and let go. It was supremely terrifying and mindblowing. If I had started the climb drunk (fuck that, but I'm saying this hypothetically) that lean by itself would have rendered me sober as a Quaker judge. On the way back down the tower, while scanning the surrounding landscape, I spotted a pair of monkey bars.
I think I was still more scared when I was four.
