The day I conquered a mountain.

Let me start this blog post by saying that peer pressure is real. It has tricked me into things like running a 5K, watching a movie about the zombie apocolypse (World War Z. Don't try it at home kids) and going out to get smoothies in the middle of winter (it's pretty easy to slip on a patch of ice and spill said smoothie... just saying).  My roommate Aubrey possesses the gift of peer persuasion. She talked me into running the 5K last year, into that horrible movie, and her most recent infraction: into hiking a mountain. 

I awoke in the wee morning hours on a Saturday to change and mentally prepare for a task that [I believe] only mountain goats and squirrels should be akin to: climbing the side of a mountain. Not walking over a foothill or trudging through a forest, I mean literally scaling a mountain of rock and rubble simply to enjoy the view from the top. Why hiking is listed under "recreational activities" in anyone's mind, is beyond me. So, we drove 45 minutes to what I now refer to as "Mount Kilimanjaro" and left the warmth and comfort of the car and started walking. Aubrey said there would be a trail. I did not know however, that her definition of a trail was different from my own. There were boulders (not exaggerating) strewn across the entire path. Sadly, that didn't stop us. Once she had me on the highway to hell and there was no going back, she kindly informed me that "it only gets worse". Excellent. Grand. Can't wait. 

I am huffing and puffing and sweating and aching by the time we get to the overlook. She points (farther than I would have hoped) and says that is where we are headed. Excellent. Grand. Can't wait. We continue scaling the mountain of rock until we see a band of boys (not the NSYNC playing from our arm band but a group 12 year old boys) jumping and running down the hill showing off their vitality and youth shouting encouragements at us like "it only gets worse" and "an hour more to go". Well, those boys can kiss my untoned elderly bottom because I made it to the top. I might have had a collapsed lung and been a little worse for wear, but I did it and I am welling with pride. I climbed a mountain. With my meager amount of muscle mass and my allergies flaring up and misogynistic bird watchers jumping out from behind bushes to scare me (he was merely sitting by a bush photographing flowers and it gave me such a fright that I peed a little) I made it. Call me Lewis and I'll call you Clark, by golly I made it to the top!

I made it back down too in case you are wondering. I am certainly not writing this blog as an SOS from the top of a mountain (that post would have been much more to the point) and it was a fairly easy trek down (in half the time too thank you very much) but, the the best part of this whole ordeal: my calves have finally stopped burning... after 6 days of rest, I can finally say that I have recovered. Will I be doing it again? Probably. Will I pack an extra tank of oxygen and take an allergy pill? Absolutely.

Ain't about how fast I get there. It's the climb,

Jessica

P.S. Please, no judging about the Miley reference, it merely seemed appropriate.

Someday a public bathroom will kill me.

I’m sorry to those who expect this to be a blog about the harmful un-sanitized nature of public restrooms. It is not such a blog. Although it is sometimes known to be true for certain rest area stops and outhouses, I worry more about physically hurting myself with the stall doors than with the bacteria on the toilet seats and floors but I digress. 

One day when I was… okay, it was last week… I went to the gym that I frequent. After sweating it out on the elliptical, I decided I needed a bathroom break. I wiped my forehead on my neighbor’s shirt tail and made my way over to the locker room marked ladies (at least I got that one right). 

I chose the handicap bathroom because all of the other stalls were in use and because it makes me feel less claustrophobic. I opened the door… this is a piece of cake for a normal, coordinated human being; but for me, it is disaster. Still having a bad case of jelly legs from the thirty minutes of elliptical training, I fell against the door as I entered the stall. Bad news… Like most stalls, there is a metal hanger for your purse or coat, but instead of being at the top of the stall door which is easily cleared by my height it is at elbow level in this particular stall… I ran into this sturdy metal hanger with such force that I rocked the stall frames for all four areas and disrupted their occupants. I yelped in pain as I seriously restrained myself from curling into a ball on the floor. I nursed my elbow through the rest of my workout, and still had a dull pulsing ache when I went to bed that night. 

The next day, instead of a war wound or goose egg or even a simple bruise, my skin was only the palest shade of yellow. I can't even be proficiently clumsy!

who needs 'booty traps' when clumsy is on your side,

Jessica

Are we related?

Family reunions are a spectacle for those not faint of heart (it's a bit ironic that senior citizens are the most frequent attendees). Aside from the elderly asking you to repeat your lineage from Eve you also have the poking and prodding, the hugging, and the touching from near complete strangers. There is also that matter of personal space at family reunions. As long as you have a ‘hello my name is’ sticker, people don’t mind getting up close and personal with you. They don’t mind the exchanging of airborne bacteria or the idea of kissing you square on the lips because somewhere along the way, you shared a chromosome or two. So start packing, and no I’m not talking about weaponry or pepper spray... come prepared with pockets full of breath mints and chewing gum, because you are about to get more action than a cheerleader at the senior prom. 

You also just can’t escape genetics at family reunions. You couldn’t be ‘twice removed’ enough to the few who seem a little off-kilter, and you are too closely related to those you may find attractive. Yes, we’ve all experienced it: Spotted that distant relative that in any other circumstance, you may consider approaching and maybe even dating. After that information is processed, you commence hiding in the broom closet reciting ‘there’s no place like home’ and clicking your orthopedic shoes together with gusto.

Don’t get me wrong, family is great. I am a huge supporter of family. I have an insane bundle of love for mine. Not only aunts and uncles and grandparents, but my great aunts and great cousins too. I don’t always know how I’m related to who, but in the grand scheme of things, who cares... right? I mean, after your immediate family, everything gets convoluted anyway. You have your cousins, and then your first cousins, and then your second cousins... that's not right, is it? 

So, I endure to the end. The enthusiastic waving of arm dangle, the breath smelling of fixodent, and memorizing seven generations so that you can recite it on demand. In hind sight, this might actually prevent accidental incest. Who knows...

Don't I know you from somewhere, 

Jessica

There must be trampolines in heaven.

I desperately wanted a trampoline as a child. It was right up there with the newest Backstreet Boys cd, a Polly Pocket palace, and a pony. My parents denied me that joy... actually those joys... I never did see that pony. When I asked [nay, when I pleaded] my parents would simply reply with "we have a trampoline" I tried to explain to them that my mothers exercise trampoline that was two feet wide in diameter, was not the same as a trampoline for 2+ people. I played every angle: The childhood memories, the health benefits, and the popularity I could have to no avail. Instead, I was a chubby child with exactly one friend. A trampoline could have changed that...

As an adult, I take advantage of trampolines. Whenever I can, I seize the opportunity to complete the only trick I have up my sleeve: The Butt Bounce (again, thanks mom...) with a wide magnificent grin on my face, children younger than 5 will find me wickedly talented while others just point and laugh... Such is life. You can only imagine my pleasure when I find that a place exists called jump time. It is exactly how it sounds: wall to wall trampolines. They have a foam pit that sucks you in and doesn't allow you to escape no matter how hard you may pump that breast stroke. There are trampolines directly under basketball hoops which allow you to live out your dream as a member of the toon squad, and of course, they have a bouncy runway leading toward an upright trampoline which I can only assume is a runaway ramp for angry teens. So many possibilities packed into a single warehouse. 

I can only describe the full hour we paid for as joyous. Pure joy with blackened sock bottoms, sweaty bangs, and various body fat rippling with each bounce. I couldn't help but smile as I was surrounded by giggling toddlers and teenage gymnasts that made my butt bounce seem like the amateur trick it really was. To show those flipping gymnasts (pun intended) what's up, I tried to do a trick meant for intermediate to expert level jumpers. I made my way to the end of the bouncy runway, fully intending to jump feet first into the upright trampoline and land back on my feet. I bounced my feet off of the too tight trampoline, lost my footing whilst tying to land (I probably slipped on a puddle caused by my own sweat) and face planted. I got up, dusted off, and shamefully made my way to a near empty room and practiced perfecting the knee bounce.

Piecing together my dignity was low on my list of priorities. There were rowdy boys to pelt with dodge balls and bouncy houses complete with slide (intended for small toddlers) to enjoy. In the end, I put jump time down as a success, not a failure. Face planting amidst my friends and foes was a small price to pay for that many trampolines.

Bounce me to the moon,

Jessica

P.s. To my parents credit they did buy us a pool. That one friend was glad she stuck with me through the trampoline-less existence.