Without training wheels
I dislike it when people ask me about my extreme sport pursuits without recognizing the scant possibilities of doing anything close to extreme sports when you have a Jewish mother.
It’s a lose-lose situation. Either you go out and try and compete in extreme sports, but then you endlessly get nagged about your padding being insufficient, or the helmet isn’t strong enough. “So let’s get a new helmet.” “Oh, it’s so expensive, sweetie.” And then you find yourself in a body suit cushion like the Michellin Man.
And then if you give up extreme sports all together, you have your mother telling you that you ought to get outside. That passive-aggressive, “How can you watch TV on a beautiful day like this?” And then you get outside and “Watch out, there’s so many cars out there. You will die.”
Jewish extreme sports have thus degenerated to jaywalking, or loitering. Pathetic on the scale of the X-Games, but for the sake of adventure, man, it’s like a Bar Mitzvah all over again.
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