I have acquiesced to many, many stupid requests under the influence of alcohol, including requests to:
1. Make out with a boy I didn’t particularly like.
2. Give my 200-lb friend a piggyback (his loss, really; my knees were skinned, his ankle was sprained for 3 weeks).
3. “Pull my finger.”
I believe I have now topped them all, however. At my work retreat, slightly tipsy, maybe caught up in the high of having designed and orchestrated a meal for 25 people, my largest seating yet (they work the first year associates hard, yo), I agreed to participate in this thing called a “mud run.”
I had never heard of one before, but it sounded like you might “run” and you might get “muddy,” neither of which I am averse to unless I am wearing heels in the case of the former or white in the case of the latter.
This is a REAL LIFE obstacle course at a nearby army base. With like, tires to run through, and scarier, WALLS TO CLIMB.
I am a just a little (aaaaagh!) nervous.
I’ve never been muscly.
Frequently in pilates my legs will be so tired they’ll shake. A LOT.
And every time they do, it takes me back to ninth grade P.E., when I had to do a (&$%*@) pull-up. Just one! Just one! That’s all I had to do to pass.
So I did one. ONE.
Only! My heinous P.E. teacher with a severe spittle problem WASN’T WATCHING. And wouldn’t believe me that I had done one, even with my BFF Melissa testifying in my defense.
So my little 30% body fat arms had to try again.
And try I did, my friends. I was only taking the darn class P/F but, dude, I still had to pass.
Near tears, I hoisted myself up, every ounce of me struggling to reach my chin to the bar, some ounces of me struggling more than others — my right leg. It was shaking SO HARD, and this wasn’t like some freestanding pull-up bar either. It was attached to a wall. So as my leg shook, it knocked into the wall, and EVERYONE, especially Craig Adams, my crush in that class, and a girl whose name I will not mention because it’s less common and also still know her and we get along, my arch nemesis in that class, could see — and hear (thumpity thump thump) — my flailing, epileptic leg as I tried to make it up there.
And if you think I didn’t hear my leg-shaking retold to me in bio the next morning? You have sorely overestimated the generosity of spirit of 14-year-olds, my friends.
And now I may relive it all.
Nonetheless, instead of freaking out, I am just going to comfort myself with a picture of Viggo Mortensen (VM himself, NOT VM as Master Chief, obviously, NOOO) reciting D.H. Lawrence to me, and leaving me notes in my locker.