By Francesca
If all your friends jumped off a cliff, would you do it?
Apparently, I would.
With my toes at the edge of a slippery rock thirty feet above the choppy sea, I realized that at twenty-eight years old, I’m still as susceptible to peer pressure as I was at sixteen.
I was spending the weekend with my best friend and her fiancé in Little Compton, Rhode Island, with a bunch of his friends, and on this particular afternoon, I’d let the boys talk me into going cliff diving.
A fun fact about me: I’m terrified of heights. I mean truly phobic, in that there is no reasoning behind my fear, I know it’s stupid, but I have a physical reaction to feeling high up and precarious. My legs turn to Jell-O, my hands shake, my heart races, and I have the overwhelming urge to crouch and crawl—anything to get closer to sea level.
And now I found myself literally looking down at the ocean.
Let me rewind fifteen minutes, to when I was happily, safely lounging on the beach now a hundred yards out of reach. My bestie and I were sunning ourselves on this glorious day, picking out all the most horrible gowns from the stack of bridal magazines we’d brought.
We were debating whether or not ribbon belts are figure-flattering or hopelessly played-out when her fiancé and his handsome British friend found our beach towel.
“It’s that time of the day!” her fiancé cried. “We’re going to the cliff!”
“Huh?” I said, squinting up at them.
He pointed out to the ocean, to where people the size of specks were lined up and throwing themselves off a tall, rocky outpost and into the sea, like lemmings. “It’s really fun, the best part of my day.”
“Yes, Francesca, you have to jump with us,” added the Brit. The only thing I liked about the sentence was my name in his brogue.
“Oh-kay. I’ll go,” I said, getting up slowly.
“Have fun,” my friend chirped.
“Aren’t you coming?” I asked.
“Absolutely not,” she answered.
I looked back at the guys, as if to say, wait, “no” was an option?
“I’ll watch,” she said, without lifting her eyes from the magazine.
I instantly regretted my hasty agreement. But I wanted to seem like a fun gal, up for anything. Maybe my fear of heights had diminished with age, I thought.
Wishful thinking.
I swam out to the cliff with the guys, my dread growing with every stroke. When we reached the rock face, a lifeguard posted on the cliff—yes, before you get too impressed, this cliff was so “rugged” it had a lifeguard—called down to us as we bobbed in the choppy water.
“Sorry guys, you just missed the last jump. Tide is too low, you’ll have to come out later.”
Welp, too bad, let’s swim back.
“Aw, can’t we go real fast?” pleaded the fiancé.
“All right, be fast.”
The Brit beamed. “Great! Thanks, mate!”
Yes. Thanks.
The guys quickly scrambled up the ladder nailed into the side of the rock, while I struggled to grasp the slippery, algae-covered rungs.
But I couldn’t wimp out now. What would they think of me? I sucked in my breath and climbed up.
My legs were so shaky, I could barely lift my leg over the top rung and onto the rock, but I did it. There were ledges of graduated heights, and, of course, the boys had to climb to the very highest one.
I followed just so I didn’t have to be alone.
I decided I had to go second if I was going to go at all. The Brit went first, and the fiancé agreed to stay behind for moral support.
While I stood trying to screw up my courage, below me an attractive, shirtless man with an accent was beckoning me—in most circumstances, any one of those traits would do the trick, but, at the moment, I was numb. The only thing that was going to get me to jump was the knowledge that only jumping would get me off this miserable rock face with the wind whipping across my body.
If I didn’t jump soon, I was likely to faint.
So I counted to three and leapt. I held my breath and my nose, but the cliff was so high, I nearly ran out of breath before I hit the water.
The impact gave me an atomic wedgie worthy of the Bikini Atoll.
Check back in nine months, I may give birth to a fish.
But I survived, my top stayed on, and I was back at sea level—I was elated. The boys congratulated me for my courage. Apparently I’m a better actress than I thought.
The cliff at its most welcoming
“Thank you, thank you,” I said. “You know, it wasn’t so bad. If the lifeguard had let us, I would’ve gone a second time,” I lied.
“Let’s ask!”
Damnit.
So I jumped off the cliff twice that day.
And I hated it both times.
As the weekend progressed, more and more of the fiancé’s friends arrived, most of whom I had never met before. I did have my best friend there, but she was often busy playing hostess with her hubby-to-be, or I imagined they were trying to get some rare alone time, and I didn’t want to seem clingy. The new people were all friendly and cool, but they were old college chums with an easy comfort. I tried to be my most “on” to win them over, but I still often felt a beat behind. I hadn’t been so desperate to be liked since I switched districts in sixth grade.
What does it feel like to be the new kid when you’re almost thirty?
The same.
So I continued to go with the flow, even if doing so required me to swim upstream. When we all got stir-crazy one Saturday night, someone suggested a drinking game, but the only liquor we had extra of?
Warm red wine.
And another fun fact about me? I’m not very good at drinking games.
So I got more sloshed than I have in years. While several other girls demurred, I was easily goaded into being the last woman standing.
Later, one of the guys who works for an e-cigarette company produced samples of the product. I have never smoked a regular cigarette, or anything else, in my life, not even the lone joint in college. And although I don’t have the same heath aversion to e-cigarettes, they’ve always struck me as kind of douchey.
And yet that night, I declined only once before caving. Soon I was puffing away on an e-cig, feeling like a complete idiot, but a popular one.
But, Mom, everyone was doing it.
The next day, thanks to chugging red wine and sucking enough nicotine vapor to keep Kate Moss buzzed, I had one of the worst hangovers of my life. And somewhere between the headaches and the dizzy spells, I thought, what the hell am I doing?
They say, if I knew then what I know now …
My motto of the weekend should’ve been, if I knew now what I used to know then.
In high school I was actually more immune to peer pressure and truer to myself than I had been that weekend. Because back then, I was in my comfort zone. I grew up there, I knew everyone, and I went home every day to my mom. I wanted for nothing.
It’s easy to jump with a safety net.
Now, I live alone in the city, and I’m performing the high-wire act of every twentysomething who’s trying to balance career goals with personal ones, not to mention a checkbook. I struggle to walk the line of building the person I want to be while only being the person I am.
And after ending a two-year relationship, I had to say goodbye to the entire network of my ex-boyfriend’s friends, many of whom I’d grown close to. Now I have to create a new network, from scratch.
So I admit, I wanted these people to like me. I wanted to be in their group.
And I want my novel to get published this year. And I want to meet a wonderful man. And I want to be happy.
I want everything.
But when the pounding in my temples subsided, I knew I’d have to be myself to get it.
The next day was my last in Little Compton. I thought my girlfriend would be able to drive me to the train station an hour away, but I forgot she didn’t have a valid license, so the Brit gallantly offered to give me a lift.
During the drive, we got to talking on a deeper level than we had all weekend. And again, I found myself out of my comfort zone. But this time, I spoke with uncalculated honesty.
Without meaning to, I found myself telling him my life’s story. My “dynamic” family history of divorce, remarriage, and divorce, my own thoughts about marriage and kids.
As far as having romantic “game” goes, this was as un-strategic as it gets. The TMI factor was giving me anxiety, but despite my better judgment, I couldn’t stop my mouth.
I think, on some level, I wanted him to know me before I left.
The me who’s afraid of heights, and a lightweight, and a little square, and not very well traveled. The real me.
We’re getting drinks next week.
One, two, three, jump.