I don’t like swimming.So the concept of diving into something too deep is doubly frightening for me. I look out on the water, all glassy smooth and seemingly pliable. And on a summer day its almost inviting. Almost. I’m afraid of that water, because I know that once I hit the surface I’m done for. I know it will be icy cold and fire hot all at the same time. Its inviting smiles and waves will have, once again, proved themselves to be nothing but a slap in my face. But that’s not even the worst part. Because gravity’s out to get me too. It wants to drag me down into those 12 feet of deep dark creature infested waters. And to add insult to injury, it wants to do a role play; only instead of stuffing me in my seventh grade locker like last time, it wants to pull my underwear up over my head. And while I’m down in that deep dark place, running out of oxygen (because I have the lung capacity of a two year old), praying that no rogue shark is out hunting for an appetizer, this is what I think about: Would I, in this moment, like to try and defy gravity and make my way toward the surface OR would I rather free my lower regions from their super wedgie captivity and die with dignity? This is always a toss up. Why? Because I have warring shoulder angels. One of them is my inner child and the other one is stuffy and boring. The junior high voice inside my head tells me that I would rather die than look like an idiot while the put-on-your-big-girl-panties-and-deal voice in my head assures me that life is (indeed) the better option. Thinking about it, I make that choice everyday. And today, life is the better option.