I'm afraid of drifting.

There's this meditation exercise where you picture yourself holding a balloon and floating up with it — out of your chair, your living room, your apartment — then gently floating along over your city. You picture this and become Calm and Peaceful.

I don't know if it's the height thing (I'm afraid of them), the relaxing thing (I'm not good at it), or merely the fact that the inside of my head is a ridiculous place, but I just couldn't do it.

I got out of the apartment okay, but once I got to the power lines, I worried. If I fell, I'd get hurt. This is your imagination, I reminded myself. You won't fall. It's pretend. I floated higher.

Then I thought about how I was up very high with only a balloon, and, really, how high can a balloon go before it pops? 

SHUT UP, I told my brain. But it wouldn't. Finally, I strapped on an imaginary parachute. I am now safe. I have a parachute. I can float about without fear of falling. I am Calm and Peaceful. But...

A balloon string — wouldn't that be cutting into my hand about now?

I replaced the string with a comfy leather strap.

Wouldn't my shoulder start to pull? What if it dislocates?

Eventually, I ended up in a deck chair, supported so it couldn't tip backwards, with a hot air balloon type contraption and a safety rail before I gave up and watched a couple of Frasier reruns. So much for meditation.

Floating is frightening. Heights are frightening. Hanging there, unsupported, nothing there to catch me — it's scary enough that I can't even do it in my head.

There's a metaphor in here somewhere, I'm pretty sure.