In the past twenty-four hours I have hand-hemmed four pairs of sheers, and scaled a very tiny part of a forty-foot wall.
The first because a hundred year old Victorian house has no business having blinds instead of sheers under the drapes.
The second because I married the mother of all adrenaline junkies.
He wasn't present on the day in which three teenage McDonald's employees had to rescue me from a tube at the top of an indoor playland back in 2004. He insists that once I conquer some heights I will gain more confidence (I don't have a fear of heights. I just hate being up high now. It wasn't this way when I traveled with the shows.) He has waxed so hard on the mental strength climbing brings that I can see my reflection in our conversations. And he's confessed that he wants a climbing buddy whose ass he actually enjoys looking at on the way up.
Who can argue with that?
And so Bridget goes to Beginner Climbing Lessons for Adults for the next six months and Mr. Junkie here is taking a ice climbing course because he couldn't sit still if you stapled him to a chair.
Here's the part where I admit I had a ball. And also, the sheers, they look fantastic. And I cannot lift my arms anymore so this is it. Call it an entry.
Go me! (Waves tiny chalky fists).
TGIF.
