Reaching

I like characters who reach for what they really want, when they could just as easily grab something easily accessible that would probably make them decently happy.

When I was but a wee sprite, my sister and I decided that a jewelry box was imperative to the game we

were playing. I ran upstairs to get one. We had a dresser with shelves on top. On the bottom shelf, within easy reach was a perfectly serviceable jewelry box. It was purple and had cartoon drawings of jewelry on it. Who could ask for anything more?

Apparently Kid Me.

Because there on the top shelf, completely out of reach I saw the red jewelry box. Now this box meant business. It was covered in crimson velvet with gold piping. And it was no mere rectangle. Nay, it was more akin to a fancy figure 8. And while the purple box had sat flat on the shelf, the red box was propped up by the tiniest, most delicate golden feed I had ever seen.

I had to have it.

So, I did what any self respecting kid would do in such a situation. I monkey climbed my way up to the top shelf, tucked the jewelry box under my arm and monkeyed back down. It would have all been fine, except for my not paying attention to the fact that the shelves were not actually connected to the dresser, just sitting on top of them.

My speedy descent had knocked them off balance and no sooner had my feet hit the ground than the shelves fell toward me. In a feat of speed and strength unmatched in all the rest of my years, I dropped the jewelry box and caught both sides of the dresser, preventing it from falling any further than it had.

Of course, I completely lacked the upper body strength to right the damn thing. So, there I stood, amid the wreckage. Trying not to shift my feet lest I further massacre the plethora of Precious Moments figurines that had all come crashing to the ground. And trying desperately to figure out if I dropped the shelves was I fast and small enough to fit through the window in the Little Mermaid tent set up directly behind me.

I stood there under those shelves for what felt like an eternity before my sister, who had apparently forgotten all about the jewelry box game, finally wandered up. She looked at me with vague interest, as though she was trying to figure out what game I was playing now and went back to her search for crayons. I finally convinced her to go get mom and she slowly went back downstairs and informed my mother I wanted her, somehow managing not to mention the falling furniture debacle. I still assert this was all revenge for the whole Sesame Street/Stitches Fiasco of ’91, but I digress.

My mother came to the bottom of the stairs and yelled up that I was going to have to come down to talk to her as she had just started folding laundry. Due to the effort I was putting into holding up the shelves, I couldn’t yell, but I did manage to get out that I was slowly being crushed by furniture. And up the stairs my mother flew, righting everything without even donning a cape and tights.

Sure, I was shaken by the experience, but as I stood there in my mother’s embrace, I remember one thought fleeting across my mind.

I had gotten the jewelry box.

It was at that moment, that I knew that I was just a touch insane. And it is that mental mania that to this day has me favoring characters who travel the road of high risk/high rewards.

Where’s the fun in playing it safe?