Ok, I signed up for bungee jumping so that Timmy and the guys stop busting my balls. A little stupid, sure. But some tough-guy credit will guarantee to shut them up. I know it.

On the jeep ride over to the bridge I focused on my breathing. The jumping coach was going over instructions, which was entirely unnecessary, except to fill the nervous silence. It is very obvious that Bungee jumping instruction should be six words only: “Jump. And don’t shit your pants.”

Actually on second thought, you don’t even need to jump. Someone is paid to push you off. So, “Fall. And don’t shit your pants.”

I continue to practice my focus through breathing exercises. In and out. In. Out. I fully intend on not shitting my pants. Because Timmy and the guys are elbowing each other by the riverbank. I can hear them laughing and howling mockery at me. Bunch of idiots, always busting my chops.

The safety guy straps me in a bright red five-point harness and a pair of thick ankle wraps. He pulls on them firmly and secures the fit. Then he flips me around so I face the open air and the whirlpooling muddy river seventy feet below my toes.

I see trees, shrubs, rocks and things. But mostly, oh, I just can’t wait to throw this in Timmy’s face! Like, for the rest of his life.

“Oh yeah, Timmy?” I’d say, “then how come you chickened out on bungee? You chicken shit!”

BOOM. Mic drop.

Security person pats on my back twice, “you ready, tough guy?”

I nod affirmative once.

Eat it, Timmy.