Epimone (e-pi’-mo-nee): Persistent repetition of the same plea in much the same words.
“Will you think it over? Will you please think it over? Will you consider it? Come on! Skydiving! Floating to earth under a colorful canopy of polyester. Landing on your feet won’t be a metaphor! The view from 12,000 feet is stunning. You can see the earth’s curvature. You can take pictures. You can brag about it. Plus, you have a reserve parachute! Fail safe!” I couldn’t believe my mother was trying get me to jump out of an airplane with what looked like a giant tablecloth billowing above my head.
All my life she had prodded me to play it safe—from the playground to the parkway—safe, safe, safe. No Monkey Bars. No driving over the speed limit. She would give me call and response pep talks. “What’s the most important thing?” she would yell. I yelled back “Safety!” “What keeps you alive?” “Safety!” “How did Columbus get to America?” “Safety!” “ Why did you wear diapers?” “Safety!” On and on it went. Safety was the Holy Grail.
So, why does she want me to take up sky diving? It isn’t safe. Far from it. People die. So, I asked her. She said, “Skydiving is a perfect pastime for an unmarried middle-aged uninteresting coward. I met a girl who’s a skydiver. We made friends and I told lies about you to get her interested. I told her you’re a skydiver too.” “Jeez Mom, I’ve pent my life protecting my cowardice with safety’s shield. You put me on that path and now pushing me off it. Ok, I’ll go skydiving.”
I took some lessons at the airport from “Soft Droppings,” the skydiving school. I was ready. I hadn’t made any actual jumps yet—all the lessons were conducted in virtual reality. I called Mom’s friend and asked her out on a skydiving date. She sad she would love it after what my mother had told her about me. She told me she had never met a professional race car driver before and was really eager to jump with somebody in “The 1,000 Jump Club.” I was screwed.
We were 8,000 feet above some hick town in central Minnesota. It was time to “Go!” and I was first out the door. The green light came on and, eyes closed, I jumped. My parachute deployed automatically and shredded like a piece of lettuce. I panicked and peed in my parachuting pants. But then, I remembered what my mother used to say about diapers, and I yelled “Safety!” I pulled the handle on my reserve chute. When it deployed, it wrapped around my neck. It looked like a giant condom fluttering in the wind, but it did slow me down a little. At that point, my date came flying out of nowhere and grabbed my harness. She cut the reserve chute loose with a big switchblade knife. She was facing me. She pulled close and kissed me, sticking her tongue in my mouth. It was my first kiss since my landlord’s daughter five years ago.
We landed on our feet. But, that wasn’t the end. She found out the truth about me and told everybody that I had peed my parachuting pants.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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