Getting High

You know, I’m really not a big fan of ladders…or heights in general. If I never had to elevate myself from good ol’ tierra de madre, I’d be happy. Sadly, my lot through my life has been to violate this desire.

When I was an old-enough kid (with a very well developed respect for gravity, thank you veddy much), my dad would have me climb up on the roof with him to help with things like loose shingles, securing antennae, and that sort of stuff. As for me appreciating/enjoying these bonding moments…not so much. Still the fact of the matter was that my dad needed another set of hands to help, and I was the one available.

Then in work or in school, I’d often be the one asked to climb onto catwalks, or scaffolds, or other above-the-ceiling locales. Again, not loving it…but I was less resistant to going than telling anyone that heights just weren’t my thing. It didn’t help that there were almost always people even more with the altitude avoidance than me. If I didn’t go, then it wouldn’t get done.

Now, in the past couple of years, I’m more in the family way, and as such I get to do the journeys to the attic (or attics), the treks to the roof, and lately, to the lovely high parts of our house for the placing of Christmas lights. I accept this this is a task that I must do. I’ve always had to do it. But, even after almost four decades, I’m still not loving it.