On Saturday our friends invited us to go rock climbing with them. I've only rock climbed a few times in my life, most recently in 2001. Let's do the math...that was eleven years, four kids, and one husband ago. I've been in the mood to test my fear and anxiety threshold lately--I also tried Zumba last week--so we agreed to go.
DJ was a trooper. He came straight from work in his Levis and gave it a shot. For those who've never climbed before, usually you wear these tight little climbing shoes that make you look like a nerd. We don't know anyone who wears a size 13 climbing shoe, so DJ went in his nice work shoes.
Macey and Olivia tried it out, too:
At one point it was my turn. I borrowed my friend's tight little shoes, strapped into the Climbing Girdle of Joy and Flatteringness (TM), and deliberately made my way up the cliff face. I climbed for what felt like hours. Eventually my arms began to weaken.
"I don't think I can do this," I told my friend.
"Everyone says that. You've got it," my friend replied calmly from the rocky desert floor hundreds of feet below.
My legs began to quiver with fatigue. The bones in my arms liquified until my entire upper body had the consistency of Jell-o. "No really, I can't do this. I don't want to die today."
"See that crevice about seven feet above your head?" my friend asked. "See if you can reach that with your right arm."
I reached, but couldn't make it. I lost my footing. The world spun around me. My life flashed before my eyes just like a bad cliche. I plunged down to my waiting death...
...five feet below.
I climbed five feet before I fell. It felt a lot higher. Given the right shoes I could've jumped from five feet up and been okay.
You're probably wondering how I almost died this weekend. It wasn't the rock climbing. It was the Twinkies. Roll credits.
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