Wavering courage

"How am I..." I trailed off, frowning at the icy blue water below, trying to judge the distance. Thirty feet, maybe? The question was an academic one at that point; everyone else had easily made the jump, throwing themselves bodily into the lake like so many keys flung carelessly onto so many kitchen tables. Even the girls. The primal schoolyard instinct to not be outdone by the fairer sex had already secured its victory; it was now merely a formal matter of how and when.

I was alone on the ledge now; the others had moved on to a different jumping spot that was supposedly higher and more daunting. I could hear their laughter and French-accented woohooery in the near distance, and again as the voices echoed off of the other side of the valley. Looking off to the right, I could see the tiny figures of people enjoying themselves on a small beach. Suddenly I became paranoid that they were watching me hesitate at the ledge. I scanned them for saracastic waving or cheering, but they appeared not to notice me. To be on the safe side, I tried to lean casually against the rockface behind me. If they did happen to look over, all they would see was a disaffected man standing on a cliff--one who clearly had more pressing matters to attend to than jumping off of it. I was in my underwear.

Had I been a little more mentally agile, I would have observed to myself that this was a metaphorically loaded moment indeed: there were cliffs and leaps and wavering courage and unknown depths, all coming in the first weeks after quitting my job, selling my things, and travelling the world. Instead, though, I stared sadly at a distant plant.

After some time, the drone of taunting and whooping once again grew nearer, until, Little-Rascal-like, they were back amongst the ledges and shrubs that surrounded me, wet and shivering and passing fresh beers all around.

I turned to them and said, "I need courage. If you all count to three, though, I'll jump. Will you count for me?" A happy flurry nods and yeses.

They counted, and I lept--with a barely audible "Mon dieu!" at the apex.

Icebreaker

The topic of consumerism has furrowed many a brilliant brow over the years, and about it, much has been written; so I will keep things brief here and only go so far as to mention that, in addition to all of those thought-provoking and articulate criticisms, there is also the drawback that consumerism is not cheap.

What I mean to say is, you can't wade three feet into a new hobby or interest without discovering that, not only have millions of people gotten there first, but they've perfected the getting-there to an artform and are standing by, ready to sell you precisely what you need to get there too. They have anticipated every obstacle and provided a cleverly located strap or buckle to negotiate it; they have water-proofed everything; and they've made it with a material so advanced as to make NASA blush and change the subject.

Which makes the things so damn difficult to resist buying. Get into fishing, and suddenly you are immersed in the dynamic world of fishing roddery. Deer hunting? Try sitting in this lightweight camoflaged sphere that comes with a cupholder. Etc.

When it comes to tramping--otherwise known as walking--the purveyors of just-the-thing are there in force. A specific brand, Icebreaker, has particularly captured my imagination. There are two reasons for this. First, all of their clothing is made with merino wool, which--aside from being light and warm--has the left-eyebrow-arching property of being stink resistent, thereby opening broad new vistas in the area of laundering frequency. Second, their advertisements feature a bizarre yet strangely arresting combination of stunning models and muscular he-sheep:

I mean, I don't know what the hell I'm looking at here but I'm pretty sure it's a harbinger of things to come. And in any case it succeeds in instilling in me an unhinged Johnny-Got-His-Gun stream of consciousness that only just rises to the level of shameful nonsense: "An $80 undershirt! Yes! Are those children? Good God that woman's ass is perfect! Sheep head! Look at these socks."

Why just today I was in a store in Queenstown checking out the Icebreaker goods on offer, and getting more agitated by the minute. After excitedly asking the girl at the register for a pen and paper so that I could "diagram some things out", moving into the corner of the store, and thinking deeply for forty minutes, I decided I was a) in over my head and b) hungry for hamburgers. I returned the pen and took my leave.

But it was a narrow escape! If I am to avoid buying some kind of high-performance legging or technical sock, I will have to keep my wits about me.

I've already bought a shirt.