A couple weeks ago, I went rock climbing for the first time.

Now, you might be saying, "It's about time!!" or "Wait, Molly, aren't you afraid of heights?" or "Molly, you're so afraid of heights that your cousin tried to trick you on going on a roller coaster once and you ran out of line sobbing because you couldn't handle it!"

All of which are completely valid responses.

As many people know all too well, I'm not a "heights and speed" sort of adrenaline junkie. I prefer to get my rush through live performance or a well-written thriller novel like the washed up, old opera star that I am inside.

Despite this, I'm also someone who likes to try new things and expand their comfort zone — cut to me, panting, standing in the middle of a rock gym, fiddling with my harness and staring up at the walls with disbelief.

I see this one man, in particular, scaling the wall with ease and what seems like years of experience. I'm stunned and staring, having made it halfway up a number of walls only to have the knowledge that I am *just* so far off the ground make me freeze and retreat.

This man, on the other hand, with his curly red hair pulled back by a sweatband, gauges where his feet need to go, trusts the rope when he needs to re-strategize and makes it to the top with an ear-to-ear grin as if it were nothing. Like a badass.

I'm drawn to this climber in particular because he seems about 7 or 8 years old.

I could have been staring at an infant and been just as impressed.

He's a kid, maybe as half as tall as I am, climbing these walls like there's no tomorrow, and having a ball doing it.

To say I was starstruck is an understatement.

It would also be an understatement if I said I wasn't a little jealous.

Watching a small child rock climb better than you is a little like watching a dog pass a driver's test perfectly when you got three points deducted for a bad turn. You both prove you can do the task at hand, but you would hope that age and "worldliness" would help you do a little bit better. (It doesn't).

That aging opera star inside of me, with her Norma Desmond-esque sneer, started doing the thing that murders us from the inside out: comparing.

I wondered why I couldn't stomach my uneasiness with heights, knowing I was completely secure in the harness, knowing someone I trusted was belaying me up and down the wall. I wondered why I couldn't trust the ropes when I needed to find a new route up the wall instead of giving up. I wondered why I couldn't just make it up a wall to the very top just One. Damn. Time.

If this 8-year-old could do it, why couldn't I?

And then I reminded that old crone in the back of my head to do what old opera stars do best: be irrelevant and ignored.

Because it's unfair to compare myself to someone who has more skill at something than I do, regardless of age. And it's a lot more fun to celebrate the fact that this kid is rocking it (pun intended) and let his complete and total awesomeness be inspiring rather than discouraging.

Kids are badass. They don't care what you think of them, they don't play by the rules, and they do things like climbing very tall rock walls and don't think anything of it.

So I took a deep breath and tried to channel my inner kid/badass and let the washed-up opera star take a nap.

It took a couple tries, but I made it to the top of a wall.

Was I still scared? Completely. Did I think about giving up three-quarters of the way there? Yes!

Was the fear I felt climbing up those last few feet overshadowed by the thrill of tapping that final red handhold at the very top?

Absolutely.

I was proud, sweaty, and ready to go home and collapse.

It was awesome.