A funny thing happened on my way into my 30s: I developed a fear of heights.
It started innocuously enough, and easy enough to explain away: when driving up Waimea Canyon in Hawaii, the precipitous drops on either side of the two-lane road up the mountain caused an intense desire to study the fabric on the back headrest of the seat in front of me. And then again, driving on the peaks of canyons on the way to Escalante, Utah, my palms mysteriously sprung a leak while looking down to the bottoms of…
