Eva Bradley: Epic Holiday becomes epic fail

How old is too old to get supercalifragilistically excited about something? Or anything?

Last week I was like a kid at Christmas. After a long and exhausting wedding season, I had my first weekend off in about a billion and requested my boyfriend get me the hell out of town to celebrate.

I expected a warm winter retreat ... a cute colonial B&B; somewhere off the beaten track, or maybe a nearby city escape with high heels and late nights. What I didn't expect was four hours into our retreat from everyday life to be given my passport.

In what seemed like moments, we were on the tarmac and being pushed back into our seats by G-forces propelling us in the direction of Brisbane.

For the next four days, I was indulged and spoilt and stimulated in all the ways responsible for turning the children of today into the delinquents of tomorrow. It was awesome, bro.

When I was genuinely a pip-squeak and taken to the Gold Coast for a week of indulgence at age 10, I was far too small and scared to truly embrace what the city specialises in: excess and ... terror.

This time, as we lined up for the first of every theme park the region had to offer, there would be no turning back. No crying because the rollercoaster looked too high or being taken back to the car because I ate too many hotdogs and made myself sick.

This time, the kid had grown up and she was going to take on Dreamworld, Movie World, Sea World and every other world and win.

That was, of course, before I went on the Giant Drop. All 39 storeys of it, taking me and any semblance of courage I thought I had with it at 135km/h. It's interesting how a choice can seem so straightforward when you are standing on terra firma and then so disproportionately reckless when you are dangling 119 metres above the earth and only moments away from what felt like certain death.

Having spent many hours of my youth standing on the edge of the (not very) high diving board at my school pool, trying (and ultimately failing) to pluck up the courage to jump, I might have known that no amount of growing up was going to make me comfortable about plummeting to earth from the tallest free-fall ride on the planet.

As children half my height leaped off the ride, I sat fused to the seat and unable to breathe. Only the fear that I might get caught up with the next group of riders and have to endure the worst moment of my entire life twice within five minutes gave me the strength to stand upright.

After a panic attack that had my boyfriend wondering if it were time to call paramedics (or at the very least take me to the sick bay with all the other little kids who couldn't hack it), I recovered enough to utter two words: Never. Again.

It seems that, while we all grow up, we can't ever guarantee that we will grow brave. But although my bid to conquer a child-like fear of falling was an epic fail, I still possess the undiluted enthusiasm of youth that sees me insist on Easter egg hunts, presents under the tree at Christmas and, now, holidays to unknown destinations.