Dear Diary, I Think I Might Not Be Cool

I'm sitting here, restless but exhausted. I have serious winter-time Colorado lizard skin, but I half heartedly want to do some pole stuff in "just a few minutes, I mean it" so I keep resisting my desperate need to whip the cap off my moisturizer, pour it all over myself, and sigh in deep satisfaction like it was some kind of performance art. I need to write words for NaNoWriMo as I have been behind since day one but I keep clicking the "play next episode" button on Netflix. I'm just three episodes from finishing the 6th season of How I Met Your Mother, after all. I only started re-watching it at the beginning of the month and I am making great progress. On top of all that, I am thinking about how I need to write a blog entry for the week, do some pole instructor training homework, and be a better person at life, but I've got nothing to say, I'm lazy, and I'm lazy.

Ugh.

A couple of weeks ago Tinted Wall told me he read my blog about our climbing trip.

"I try not to read your blog." He said after he mentioned it.

"Why not?" I asked.

"Because you write it like a diary."

Oh honey. If I wrote this like I write in my diary, no one would be friends with me.

I also don't need to write most of this stuff in my diary. Diaries are places for working shit out. This is a place to learn how to deal with that shit. But since I am lacking inspiration to write something actually clever[ish] right now, let's experiment for a moment, shall we?

Back to the not reading my blog thing.

People get so weird about reading this thing. They will say things to me like, "I was reading your blog. I hope that is ok." Or "I'm sorry if this is weird, but I read your blog."

Uh. Guys. I don't put it on the internet because I don't want people to read it. I'm not standing over all these words and hissing at everyone who walks by "BACK OFF. THESE ARE MY DEEPEST INNERMOST FEELINGS. DON'T TOUCH THEM. DON'T EVEN LOOK AT THEM."

On the other hand….

Earlier this week, the personal organizer and fellow poler my boss hired [that makes me look really irresponsible and lazy in comparison] said to me while she was being productive and I was sitting there watching, "It's so funny, I read your blog, so I already know what is going on in your life!"

I was really hungover-- like super hungover-- at this point in the morning afternoon. So instead of laughing I just smiled a bit.

Because the truth is…Well, I write stuff because I don't know how to express myself in words out loud to people. At the same time, I still hold back a lot on here. Because being vulnerable to strangers is hard. In the little Meri-universe I live in, basically everyone is a stranger.

Do you ever have those moments where you look in the mirror after taking a really good, life-changing poop, and suddenly realize that everyone, nay, everything else in the world, only sees you in that way, just like how you look in the mirror at that exact moment? All they know about your little universe is what you choose to tell them. They will never know anything else, they'll never know the inside of your head and you will never know anything but. It is like you are trapped in there and can't let yourself out. I have that experience basically every day and it freaks me out equally each time. And yes, I know what you are thinking. I do have a life changing poop basically every day.

The real point you should focus on here though is that I feel incredibly separate and alone from absolutely everything around me, all the time. It is like I am constantly at an arms distance from all the people around me.

It's all about me, people. I'll tell you the secret of life changing poops another time.

I know this whole alienation thing is generally my fault. My boss recently described my main facial expression as "that inscrutable face that would be murder to play poker against" (except that I don't know how to play poker, I am lacking in balls, and don't like taking risks, but don't tell her that in case we ever play poker sometime). I've had countless teachers make fun of me for never changing emotions. People sometimes walk up to me randomly and ask if everything is ok, why am I so upset, and do I want to talk? My roommates used to confess that they were afraid of me because they never knew what was going on in my head since my face never changed. They couldn't tell if I was angry at them or normal or what.

I was only angry like, 50% of the time. Geez guys.

I don't know how to change this not being able to communicate thing besides posting stuff on this blog. Why can't people just learn how to read my mind already?

Those mirror moments I have really freak me out also because I've been having horrible acne lately and feeling very self conscious and insecure about it. Every time I look at myself, I think about how I'm 21 years old, why is my face morphing into this horrible pubescent monster? I JUST WANT THAT PART OF MY LIFE TO BE GONE FOREVER.

I feel lame for only being able to express things on a blog, though. Speaking of insecurity.

I try to do things like force myself to send a dirty text every now and then to Tinted Wall, you know, baby steps towards saying normal people things like "I like you," but then I chicken out every time. Or how I wrote that blog about how I was going to make solid friendships this year. I haven't seen any of my old friends in over a month, I haven't made many new ones, and every social event I go to I'm only like, half into it and feel the need to leave early. Becaaaaaaause. Of my insecurity. I keep having these panic attacks that I am not cool enough.

Remember how I said I was hungover the other day?

I went to this bar with Tinted Wall. He literally called it "Bar Bar," and it was just like the french elephant except less french and elephant-like and with more alcohol and Lord of the Rings pinball. I got super-de-duper! drunk. It was a Sunday night, because I am just so responsible that I go out drinking on a Sunday night, so the bar was empty and the 'spirits' of the few people there were high with how not crowded and annoying bars tend to be. People just kept handing me shots, the bartender kept refilling my beer glass while my back was turned.  I don't know. I guess I knocked over a few drinks and pissed off the bartender, who seemed pretty friendly to me, but then again I don't remember a lot of things that night. Like all these pictures and this one video I took that I found on my phone literally five days later.

It started off with taking pictures of the bathroom. This was apparently really cool and I absolutely had to take this picture. There were many others with me making stupids faces that I didn't really feel like sharing. I wonder why. 

This is not the first time I have taken pictures of bar bathrooms in Denver, oddly enough. 

So of course I needed to take two. 

This is my favorite. It really solidifies my memories of the evening. 

I posted this one the exact way I took it, like a true artist.

Note several things about this video. First that I don't remember any of this actually happening. Second that I laugh like a douche and it embarrasses me to watch/listen to this. Third that those people/strangers ordering drinks ordered some for me too, so me being totally drunk-lame was all THEIR fault. Just sayin'. 

Tinted Wall said we were about to get beaten up on the walk home, which is why we had to leave.
That may have been an exaggeration.
I may have fallen over while standing still on the sidewalk.
There are certain things in life we can just never be sure of.

Except that I woke up with leaves in my hair so I am pretty sure I did. All I really remember is that once he told me that the bartender was mad at us, at me, I started melting on the inside.

I'm not cool. 

And I can't do crazy handstands with Marlo Fisken. 

And I have shitty acne that won't go away. 

Probably because I can't stop touching it. 

Where is my life going?

It may have been the drunkenness speaking, but it isn't like I don't really feel that way 100% of the time.

It's funny because I always used to wonder how people who were regularly having sex with the same person could ever feel upset about life. I mean, guys, you are having sex. On a regular basis and everything. That is the dream! What is there to worry about beyond that? I guess when you are sexless your other concerns in life kind of become overshadowed. It is kind of like when you are starving on a desert island. You aren't really thinking "Oh my god, do people think I am lame because I can't handle my drunken-like starvation stupor? Will they still want to hang out with me? Am I still invited to the beach party???" You are usually thinking "HOLY SHIT I NEED TO EAT SOON OR I WILL DIE LIKE ACTUALLY DIE OH MY GOD I AM SO HUNGRY." Except in first world countries it is with sex. I guess.

I really can't decide which is worse.

Nina, my pole-business-organizer-hero, told me at a party the other week, "You have a way of writing about your life [on your blog] that makes it seem much more boring than it really is."

And I always thought I over-sensationalized things. Hm.

I tried really hard to do that here today. Make things seem more boring than they really are, I mean. My melodrama is about a million times more intense in my head and even though this is an "experimental diary" blog, I'm still insecure and want you to think I'm cool.



...This is a vicious circle, isn't it?





Dammit I bet if this acne would finally go away I would feel about 1000% better about myself right now. 

Rebel with a F**king Stupid Cause

I have kind of turned the whole badass thing on its head these days. I am actually becoming a stereotypical, rebellious badass.

This is what I look like lately, if you haven't seen me in awhile:

First off, I left my school awhile back, as you probably know. And with the way things have been and all the stress dreams I have where it is declared it is time for me to go back to California and I subsequently burst into tears, it looks like I may not be going back. I don't even know if I'm going to stay in art school anymore. I'm looking into transferring to community college, that is how well things are going right now. I once was considering Ivy League schools and here I am not even really wanting to enroll in a community college, I dislike school so much.

My future is so bright.

I went from the typical, mainstream straight shot through education I always thought was my destiny to  wondering what the fuck is going on constantly. By choice. A weird, panic-driven choice.

What a rebel.

Secondly, I'd like to point out I'm dating a guy who kind of has a mohawk. My family is aghast.

I recently got some minimum wage jobs, just to quit them two months later. I'm sticking it to the man. It's not that I am too much of a baby to deal with working in the service industry or anything.

The other day, I ditched class. Just because I felt like it. Wild, I know.

Well.. that and I also wanted to throw more money at my girl/pole-crush, Marlo Fisken, and take her improv workshop after doing her $900 instructor certification all weekend.

I'm only like, completely in love with her. I'm so shy around her that it's like I am in middle school all over again. 

Did I mention I am broke?

I also got some much needed time on the hoop during my school ditching time.

Yea. I ditch school to workout.

In other news, 

...I may or may not be in huge trouble in Canada?

I don't really want to elaborate on this. But it could be really, really bad. Because of this, I am just going to avoid the problem and hope it goes away. Only lame, responsible people would deal with their problems.

Not me man.

I'm not equipped for that kind of thing. Hell yea.

To add on to my possible criminal charges, I got my second parking ticket in the past two months last Wednesday. I rebelliously parked in a spot on a street sweeping day. I'm going to pay the $100 price just to prove a point.

A point about how I don't want to get arrested.

Yet.

I'm sure it's coming, considering this downward spiral I've been going in. The next thing you know I'll be getting belligerently drunk and try to break in to the zoo and go frolicking in the pachyderm house because it has always been my dream to swim with the dolphins.

When I get arrested for it, the joke will be on them. Pachyderms are actually way cooler than dolphins.

See, the thing about my identity crisis is that part of "my thing" is that I have always been totally responsible and well behaved. I'm a semi-rich white girl who has always gotten everything she asked for. (Except for that horse I wanted so badly from ages six through ten, which I still resent.) I've always appreciated getting everything I want and at the same time feel extremely guilty my life has been so easy. I should have tried harder to make it worse. I should have given away all my things, gotten a terminal disease, renounced my parents, not learned how to read, etc etc. But I have always tried to make up for it by trying to be the most hard working and well-deserving person I could be. Until now.

Why?

Because I don't know anymore.

I'd like to call it an on-going nervous breakdown, but I'm not sure I am quite worthy of that title yet. I wish. Then I could go to a crazy house and people would stop expecting me to do things and I might be able to return to functionality.

Hopefully it's just a phase. If it isn't, maybe I'll just end up living on the street as a bum when my family finally gets tired of me slacking on my responsibilities and stops supporting me, as they surely will. I mean, I'm never home for dinner anymore, so I'm already walking the line.

Part of me loves breaking out of my box and is excited about all the possibilities for my life. Part of me hates it and it going through major anxiety and every few hours my insides turn to this:

During this time, my vision goes blurry and my heart starts racing and I just do my best to forget about the fact that I am screwing my life up and try really, really hard not to have a panic attack in front of everyone.

On top of everything, there is this postcard from my dentist reminding me it's been over a year since my last teeth cleaning that has been sitting on my desk for a month. It has got this stupid cute, smiling dog that mocks me every day, serving as a reminder of what a failure I'm becoming. I can't do so much as schedule a teeth cleaning. I've even got insurance that covers it. What an ungrateful loser I've become. An ungrateful loser with dirty teeth and plaque build up. I'll admit it: I don't even floss.

I don't deserve that insurance coverage. I haven't earned it.

Dammit you stupid happy dog. Stop mocking me! STOP!


On the bright side at least I'm not pregnant yet? There was a brief moment where I thought I might be, but then I wasn't. So at least the universe gave me that.


Yaaaay....?

So now, just to make up for me being totally unaccomplished, here is a little something full of pretentiously large words to make me feel cool: 

I must find sophorosyne beyond vorfreude. Every time I think about my potential and numinous future, I know I must overcome my current koyaanisqatsi. 

I am full of fernweh. I just want to be nemophilist sometimes and enjoy the sillage of nature, relishing in my life erlebnisse. I know I can contribute to the world in the name of meliorism, even if it is just through ostranenie. Somehow, I will be a smultronstalle. Let's move beyond this mamihlapinatapai and experience rasasvada. Let's admit to acatalepsy, even if it means we'll be overcome by weltanschauung. Sometimes I feel as if I am drowning in hiraeth, but I know if I can be a nefelibata, I can live in firgun with someone else. Let me go on a metanoia now, a dérive. I can feel the orenda, the need to leave sehnsucht behind. From now on, my life will be gezellig and simple, with tsundoku, cafuné, and happiness. So be it. 

Who's the dumb one now?

....

"Just a reminder!" my ass. You're trying to make me feel bad. I just know it. STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT.  

Champion of the Microwave

Ok, so now that I am dating someone and finally not sitting around staring wistfully at my ceiling listening to Bon Iver songs, attempting to spoon with pillows, and making out with the back of my hand at night in bed, I have had to find other ways to be unhappy. 

Don't worry. There are plenty. 

(Actually, I still make out with the back of my hand sometimes on the weeknights. It's good practice. And I don't want it to get lonely. That hand and I have been through a lot, it deserves the best. )

I could rant on about feminism, the bullshit of college and education in general, or my current still-going identity crisis, but instead today I must tell you the sad, sad tale of the girl who peaked all too early in life and then had no where to go. 

I'm not talking about my straight-As in high school (not counting the unfair grading system of an evil unnamed English teacher who just needed to go away my senior year) that have lead to my mediocre college career. I'm talking about my life long quest to beat the microwave beeps. 

It all started long, long ago when I was just a wee lass. 

Oh wait. 

Wrong drawing. That isn't me. 

 That's better.

I had this dream. It was a crazy dream. "You'll never achieve it" they said, "Your dream is crazy." 

And maybe it was. 

I don't know where it came from. It was just a part of me, a part of my natural human drive. Or maybe those beeps were just too annoying, and I was the only one who could forsee change. Or maybe I just had something to prove in this wide world. I had to show them who I could truly be. Something worthwhile, something real. 

I tried and tried, tirelessly, standing attentively by the microwave every most of the time, at the ready, fingers flexing in anticipation, my heart racing. The count down was always so thrilling and as soon as I saw those wicked three zeros my reflexes pounced for the handle. 

There were those disappointing microwaves, that beeped no matter what. They got me down, but I persevered. Even with the cooperative ones, it was still so tricky. I could never pull it off. 

Until one day. 

That fateful day changed me. I had done it. I proved all of the non-believers wrong. And I got twenty-eight whole likes on Facebook. I had hit the big time. I was unstoppable.

I glided along for the next half hour like I was queen of the world. It was all a dream. All these people, so nobly liking my Facebook status. They were proud of me, I was their champion. The hero of the North American people.

But then, slowly a empty, hollow feeling began to creep over me. What else was there to life, to cooking things in the microwave, knowing I had conquered all there was to be had?

It was pointless. Empty.

Microwaving was never the same again.

All the joy was gone. The thrill of the hunt. The desperate desire. I was lost amidst of world of boring microwaves, lack-luster cooking experiences, and those beeps. Those beeps.

They mocked me.

And they still do.

Dear lord, help me find my way. Help me find my passion in the microwave challenge once again. Because without it...

who am I?

Really?

Why I Renounced the Esteemed Life of a Salad Artist

Note: 9 AM. Empty store. All duties finished.

It's called Mad Greens for a reason, you know.

I tried. I really tried. But alas, I do not have the soul of a true ar-TISTE.

Alsooooo I have a new job with flexible hours, pays 50% more, and kittens sit on my lap while I work. Also also, pole instruction is on my horizon. Real life coolness, here I come. 

Cops and Rockers

My last post was super short so this will be extra long to make up for it. That is why. It's not that I had trouble editing this story down or anything. 

In some odd happenstance, someone who isn't my Facebook friend found and read at least a decent portion of my blog. Weird, right? Well, somehow this person also happened write for DatingAdvice.com and they decided my blog was qualified to be one of the Top 10 Best Cynical Dating Blogs. I don't know if there are really that many cynical dating blogs out there or not, so I don't know how much of an honor this is... I'm guessing it is HUGE.

 I'm just still reveling in the fact that a stranger managed to keep reading past the part about butt holes.

I feel kind of bad about this, because I have a confession to make. In the past month or so I've actually been dating someone... and it has been going surprisingly well. At least I think so. Not having a relationship in 3 years makes it difficult for me to tell (Mature relationships? What are those?) We keep making plans to see each other, so I am pretty sure that means it is going well. Yea?

It happened by accident. I didn't mean to go on a date I'd enjoy! I am sorry. It has been frustrating, too, because I can't write about it here, as there are all these cutesy moments that keep happening which have no place on this blog, such as waking up in the morning and smiling at each other or going on dates that involve swing dancing. It makes my stomach churn in a weird mixture of warm fuzzies and embarrassment. I didn't think I was capable of stuff like this anymore. What am I, a normal girl or something?!!?

Damn you, warm fuzzies

That doesn't mean it couldn't all potentially blow up in my face still. Like if he turns out to be a psycho serial killer or is secretly hiding a very large, uncomfortably sexual My Little Pony figurine collection in his closet. I'm just gonna ride this out, I suppose, and hope I don't get murdered. He does live on Colfax, after all.

So far though, he just seems to be really into rock climbing, biking, whiskey, and pizza. All of which I am pretty on board with, save weird hex-key-butt-stuff (don't ask). The other week he invited me on a weekend rock climbing trip. I liked the idea of being outdoors and not working and also s'mores, so I agreed to go. I was pretty psyched all week because I was like "Yea campfires! Yea not working! Yea pooping in the woods!" Old Crow* was all "Yea rock climbing!" because that is one of his things. He kept trying to tell me he thought I'd be good at it and I kept trying not to laugh in his face too much.

*That's his chosen name. I said he could pick a poet name and he picked a weird one and I told him to pick whatever he wanted and that's what he came up with...although he might have been drunk when he chose it. On Old Crow whiskey. That's how it goes.

I've tried climbing before. When I was a kid, my girl scout troop would occasionally give it a go and I would consistently climb six feet up and then freak out and refuse to go any further. In 7th grade I tried to join the school rock climbing club only to find myself paralyzed in fear several feet off the ground still. It just was never my thing. Being afraid of heights has never been a useful skill, honestly. What a disappointment. Now in a weird twist of fate I have turned out to become an amateur aerialist and pole dancer, which ironically involves a lot of heights. Great.

At the beginning of last summer I wrote a great post about how to effectively waste your summer (mission accomplished, by the way) and a friendly friend read it and took pity on me. They suggested I try rock climbing at a gym nearby as a good use of my time. Yes, because the best thing for me in my borderline-anorexic-like overtraining that summer was more exercise. Bless his soul! I tried it anyway, because I knew I was afraid of it and I wanted to conquer my fears. It was better than trying to face the reality that art school made me unhappy. Yea!

I meant to blog about it at the time, but I got lazy. It mostly involved me being really tired, afraid of heights again, and guys trying to flirt/give me advice. I used a skinny asian boy to belay me on a lead rope wall. It was all good fun, but ultimately something I was just too tired and over-trained to pursue. Also, I was awful at it. So meh.

But Old Crow had all these expectations of me and I wanted to be cool so I was like "yeaaaaa I'll dooo this thiiing." pretending to be chill and like I wasn't freaking out in the inside.

Right from the beginning, the trip was off to a troubling start. We met with a few other people at 8pm in Denver. This is the best time to leave to go camping because it guarantees there won't be a shred of light or warmth by the time you arrive at the campsite.

Not only did I leave a party full of first graders and an ER-trip-involved injury (I missed it, dammit!), but it took me 20 minutes to find a parking spot in downtown Denver on a Friday night and I had to walk three quarters of a mile to his apartment. I'm a white girl born and raised in the mean 'burbs of the Colorado front range, so I get pretty cautious of cities as it is, especially in the dark. A few blocks in, I crossed the street and saw people hanging around on the block ahead of me. I immediately became worried that they were going to shoot me, kidnap me, rape me, etc. You know, just in the middle of the street like that. Because that would totally make sense. Then I saw they had a 3 year old child with them and figured I'd probably be ok. I came upon them and one of the men said to his kid who was playing in the sidewalk, "Now make room for this lady to pass, ok?" You know, like a normal parent. Then as soon as I walked by, he said, "Wow! That lady has a nice ass! Damn girl!" And continued to cat call me down the block. I've never been cat called in the city before, so I was only totally freaked out and booked it the next three blocks to Old Crow's place. Sexual harassment is so cool.

 Except that it really, really isn't.

I managed to make it to his apartment alive and un-raped, only to turn right back around and hit the road-- It's ok, I walked down the other side of the street this time. I ended up driving by myself because I had to get to work by a very particular time on Sunday, so I had to follow another car to an unknown location in the dark. I was doing a pretty good job keeping up on the way out of Denver when I felt my car do a weird fish-tail thing. I thought maybe it was just the wind or the curve I was driving around, but half an hour later I felt it do it again. I could not see the trees outside blowing at all, so no on the wind idea. I decided to monitor my car's behavior closely for the rest of the drive. An hour or so from our destination, in between Colorado Springs and Canon City, I was cruising down a hill when a loud noise interrupted my horribly off-key Hazards of Love sing-along time (possibly for the better). I knew immediately it was a flat tire.

I pulled over and inspected the damage. It was pretty bad. I'd had a flat before, once a few years ago on the way home from Water World. I pulled over into a neighborhood somewhere in Westminster, half wet and still in my bathing suit, and let some random Hispanic men who were working on their cars down the street do all the work for me. Gee, I wonder why they were so friendly? Well, my feminine wiles worked once again as I texted Old Crow about my problem and he and his friend came and did all the work for me. Yay being a woman. (I'm such a hypocrite).

                          


We got that all fixed up and I was only *mildly* anxious about how far I'd be driving on my doughnut tire, so we hit the road once more. I was still following, and when we passed the turn off for the road I thought we were supposed to go down, I figured that Old Crow knew what he was doing. Then we missed the next turn off. And the next. Then we took a U-turn. And another. And another. That is when I began to wonder if Old Crow had any idea where we were going. After about the sixth U-turn-- the third in this one particular intersection we kept driving across-- I started to bang my hands impatiently on my wheel and wonder very out-loudly where the fuck we were going. We sat at a red light next to an Abbey and a Burger King. It was midnight. The town was dead. The light was not changing. There was a frustrating frontage road next to the highway. Old Crow decided to run the light to take the same turn we'd already made four or five times because maybe we'll understand where we are going this time? I launched myself into mini-intersection along with him through the red, determined not to get left behind in this very confusing cluster-fuck.

Out of nowhere, a cop appeared, his lights flashing. I was halfway in the road and the turn lane of the horribly designed intersection, so I pulled over into the Burger King and let the cop talk to me. I've also only been pulled over once before-- also in Denver-- and was told to simply change the tags on my license plate. But I'd been caught red handed this time, and on top of that I still had my California drivers license, which you are apparently supposed to change within 10 days of moving. I shakily handed the cop my papers and sat in anxiety. I hadn't even gotten on any rocks and I was already stressed out. And was it me or did that cop look like a hick-version of Hitler? Amidst the nerves, my memories were hazy.

This is how my memory serves me. I'm sorry for being so racist.  (Saying schnitzel makes people German, right?)

It might have been me visibly freaking out, or the fact that Old Crow told him I'd just had a flat, or the fact that I told him we were lost, or Old Crow's adorably lovable dog Lola who licked the cop's hand, but he decided to give us a just a warning, saving me $240 and 4 point off my license. (It was probably the dog). We met up with the rest of our caravan at Wal-Mart, thanks to the clear directions given to us by the now friendly super awesome best not Hitler cop ever.

We rolled in to the campsite at about 2 am, only after a couple more U-turns and a very rough dirt road that I probably should not have been driving on with my 2-door sedan and extra small tire. The promised 2.5 hour trip had taken 5 hours. All the developed campsites were taken, so we got nothing more than a mere ring of rocks for a fire pit and nature's grandeur. It looked like I was going to get to poop in the woods as I had dreamed of. Unfortunately I was a bit rusty on this skill and found it took some time adjusting to it. Gaze upon the list of things I peed on below.

We made veggie burgers in the freezing cold dark and hit the hay at 4 am. Nevertheless, we got up bright and early the next day to go climbing. This is when I discovered some of our camping mates were really, er, difficult, namely the two kids and one young, untrained dog. One of the kids had already broken my lantern the evening before, but I shrugged it off as childish clumsiness. Turns out he just has that sort of way about him. You know. That way... The one where the kid messes up everything he touches? And the dog really liked to jump on you a lot and eat all the food on the ground, which was all of our food. (Remember: no tables in primitive camping. Wee!)

No big deal though. Thanks to Daisy the crazy puppy and two years of camp counselor experience, I have learned to deal with outlandish dogs and irritating children... Until we got to climbing. The younger little whippersnapper started crying just like the kid in a Christmas Story, usually every time he was told he was doing something dangerous or harmful to the environment. Which was constantly. It was cold, extra cold for California-Meri, and the dog was still misbehaving like crazy, so thank god his mom was merciful and took him away down the mountain into town for some good ol' fashioned distract-the-8-year-old fun. Unfortunately they got into a small car accident in town and decided to just pack up and head home for the night. Oh darn. I celebrated by helping deliver the older child and drinking a PBR hidden in my sleeve in the Wal-Mart parking lot.

No regrets.

The Canon City Wal-Mart saw a lot of class that weekend.

The younger kid cried because he didn't want to leave.

Now the actual climbing part. Let me talk about that, because that is what this blog was supposed to be about.

Old Crow set us up on a 5.9a++ wall. Which I'm told is moderate in difficulty, even though it sounds like a badass robot with a really impressive report card. Old Crow sped up the wall in about 5 seconds flat without a lead rope, something which I just don't even. Can't. What? He set up the ropes for us and sent us up there with the promise he wouldn't let us come back down until we finished the climb. Considering I could not even see the top of the wall from the ground, I knew this was going to be a really fun adventure.

Robot Report Card Route. Not hard at all, right? WRONG. HALF OF IT IS HIDDEN. 

When it came my turn, I did my best to put on my game-face, also known as my I'm-not-gonna-panic-face. No. No freaking out for me. I was a big girl. An adult. Certified badass. I can climb a pole. I can climb fabric. I can climb a rope. Why shouldn't I be able to climb a wall?

Because walls are fucking hard to climb, that's why,

Things were going alright until about 10 feet up. I had to pause every two feet or so to rest, figure out where to go next, and try to remind myself that I wanted to do this at one point. It reminded me very much of running. When I am out of shape and try to go running, it only takes me a few minutes to wonder "WHY THE FUCK DO PEOPLE LIKE THIS IT IS AWFUL." Yea. A lot like that. The wind was biting into my hands, which were pretty numb and had the stabby pains, I was quite a ways off the ground, and I was trying really hard to still seem cool. Somehow.  I got a few more feet before I reached an overhang and declared there was no more left in me. Old Crow asked me if I would be happy if I came down at this point. I said yes. He let me down. And guess what?

I was happy to have come down.

No shame.

Hey, I did better than when I was nine years old. And I was damn proud of that.

Baby steps.

We moved over to another wall. This one was a 5.10 which sounded a little less like a robot so I was kind of relieved, even though it was evidently more difficult. I wouldn't know. They're all rocks to me. They're all hard. (GET IT?) This one was very different, though. It was shorter, full of large handholds, and required big movements to get from one spot to the next. Old Crow said it wasn't really his type of climb, but he still climbed it twice at mind-blowing speeds without a lead rope. I tried to tell him he was a beast and he shrugged it off. I can hold myself ten feet in the air by nothing but my armpit, and I still sucked at it. Beast. Plain and simple.

Howdoeshedothat Idonotknow. 

(If only I could rock climb with my armpits...) 

I gave this wall another go and found myself actually making progress. Somehow. Slowly but surely. I am certain it was cheating because I let myself sit back and be held up by my belayer at least 75% of the time. I swung around a lot and almost hit a tree and another climber. I didn't really know what I was doing and probably only got up there because I have slightly decent strength in pulling myself up things. Go me.

But I did it.

And I earned pizza for it. See?


                                         

Old Crow really didn't want me to take pictures of these pizzas because they weren't up to his standards, but let me tell you, they were fucking delicious. I'm pretty sure if Old Crow does try to murder me one day, I'll be ok with it as long as he promises to make me home made pizza first. 

So yea. No biggie. I just actually climbed a full route for the first time in my life. Suck it, middle-school-afraid-of-heights-Meri.

Yea... I climbed this sucker. It's way taller looking in real life, by the way. 

The second climbing experience was exponentially better. It was yet again like running, but in the good way this time. Sure, halfway through I sat there thinking "What the fuck are you doing Meri, you are not athletic. You hate this. Go home and watch Netflix and eat pasta like you were born to do." But then I kept pushing myself and I got there and I was like "Oh. It's over now. Huh." And let the endorphins of burning out my forearms wash over me and then I'm like "THIS IS WHY I LIKE THIS." There was a strange, masochistic joy in trying to figure out what the fuck you were doing and why you were doing it.

Sigh.

I love fitness.

Anyway, the rest of the trip got a lot better from there. After conquering my never-ending fears, we came down, got SATISFRIES for free from Burger King (not very satisfrying, but they were free so I can't complain), delivered aforementioned teenager to Wal-Mart (see: secretly drinking beer in parking lot), came back to the campsite, drank a lot of whiskey, and ate a lot of potato chips. Minus annoying dog and children.  I also was the coolest cat in town and made s'mores. Like a true life Tajar, yo.That is pretty much the good life, right there.

They were so satisfrying I went back for a second round. (Not really. I just like saying satisfying) 

On top of that, I achieved my dreams of pooping in the woods at last. And didn't get it on my clothing.

The next morning we took it slow, as we didn't have enough harnesses to actually go climbing. Oh darn. We ate a big breakfast, packed up, had a last-minute beer, and hit the road. Always have a last minute beer before hitting the road. It'll help you stave off the hangover from the night before and make you a much better, more alert driver. Every time.

Despite driving at a steady 55 mph for 150 miles, I arrived back safely on my doughnut tire just in time for work, where I officially put in my two weeks for my burger-schlepping job. Then this week I got scheduled for less hours at my salad bullshit job, nailed my starfish, had time to do homework, slept like a normal person, and life has been pretty decent.

Someone shut me up before I barf all over myself with all this contentment.

HERE NOW THINK I AM COOL AGAIN:

LOOK I EVEN DID IT MORE THAN ONCE