The Scramble

I've scrambled eggs.  I've scrambled to get good hair, a decent outfit, and be on time.  And just recently, I've scrambled* a mountain.  

*In my efforts to become a better writer, I've reviewed some critiques and found that I'm over explaining to my badass readers.  Apparently, I don't need to explain what hooking-up is because you are all big sluts and already know.  Please see my essay In Defense of Dating if you don't know what hooking up is, prude.  You all probably know what scrambling is too, because you're badasses, but I didn't, so here's a definition:

Scrabbling:  climbing on rocks or boulders, but not straight up requiring a harness.  Just climbing up the rocks like a crab, or nimble mountain goat on two legs.  Or, as dictionary.com says, "a quick climb or progression over rough, irregular ground."  Dang it!  How do I get this font back to normal?  This is not going well.  better. Normal?  Ok, I give up.  

As i climbed carefully over rocks, testing for stability, my fearless leader, Shaun, bounded up the damn things.  A rock would slip from under his foot he would surfer balance, find his center, and leap to the next one.  Waiting for me to catch-up, he would even ride a big flat rock down the loose rocks, as if he were Fred Flinstone's country cousin, and a woolly mammoth was chasing him down the mountain.    bonus detail:  Shaun is very southern.  On an especially slide-prone section of smaller rocks, I looked down, and realized, if I fell, I could really hurt myself.  I could, in an unlikely chance, die.  My body froze with fear.  Shaun yelped as the rocks gave way under him.  My heart stopped.  Shaun laughed, got up, and kept on surfing down the mountain.  He just made it look so fun that stopping climbing was not an option. 

When things stop growing, they start to decay.  Biological truth.  Playing it safe on the couch will kill you too and it won't be nearly as fun.  And you'll get fat.  And your brain will go numb.  and people will think you are a big loser.  And you will forget how to laugh.  That's what I had to tell myself to get up the damn mountain.  I did.  It was incredible.    

Good News

I had switched to the new editor of blogspot and that took away my spellcheck.  Being the lazy badass that I am, I was just winging it, praying for good spelling or accidental puns.  I've taken control of my life and blog.  I got the old editor and the old spellcheck.  Hopefully, I'll be a little more correct in the future.  Thank you for your patience.  

ps.  blogspot is identified as being spelled wrong.  so is badass.  I guess I'm just gonna have to keep breaking the rules.  

tightness

My hands been sore ever since it got stitches.  Although the cut's healed nicely, it has seemed like it was swollen and bruised under the cut.  Any pressure on my hand, especially leaning directly on it, ached.  I haven't wanted to ride a bike.  There's been no downward dogs.  Essentially, I've been un-essentially handicapped.

On this fine rainy day, I don't have to work.  I don't have to go out and play.  Thanks, rain.  I've got nothing to do besides  try to figure out how to enjoy myself.  There's been some reading, some sandwiches,   E! True Hollywood Story: Oprah, and most recently, there's been some stretching.  The past few weeks being peak season, I've been working my booty off to try and support the international jet set life I aspire to, and it's been making me uptight in mind and body.  I wake-up in the middle of the night and my mind races, "Did I drop off 223's ribs?"  Nightmares of forgotten food haunt waitresses around the world.  Physically, I'm developing TMJ and a grandma walk.  My muscles are so tight and my feet so sore, people must think I'm Estelle Getty from behind in a blonde wig.  Thanks to this lovely day off, I can try to turn my hobble into its former sashay.  I'm limbering up, when it occurs to me that maybe my hand isn't bruised.  Maybe it's just tight.  Maybe nothing has been wrong all along, but a fear to use it, causing me to lose it.

On that inspirational and jazzy slogan, I'm going to return to stretching.  Keep on, folks.  You can do more than you can ever realize.  

The Learning Circle

Yesterday, I went on a hike up mountain.  I've done this before, but usually, I go up switch backs, which are a zig-zag trail that helps with steepness. My mountain hike yesterday was just straight up a ski run (gros ventre for those in Jackson).  Lungs burning, legs skidding out from under me, and sweating profusely in front of my friend who I've never hiked with before, I felt like a lame-o.

Luckily, I had a fond memory to look back on and keep me motivated.  A few months ago, I took a couple of newbies up Snow King, which is a steep mountain right in town that I had my first badass break through on years ago.  My two newbie friends are from NYC and incredibly badass in many ways, including, but not limited to, outfit coordination and witty banter.  These girls were not at all prepared to hike up a mountain.  I greeted them in full athletic apparel, with a camel pack (back pack with water bladder), and a gung-ho spirit.  They greeted me with a small leather purse, adorable cut-offs, converse, and a cup with a straw.  I couldn't help but smile to myself.  I used to have no idea how to do this stuff either and now I kinda do.  I know what it takes to get up Snow King.  But my badass hiker friend, Ali, proved to me yesterday that I still don't know crap about heading straight up a mountain.  I love the circle of life.  There will always be someone who is better at something and someone who is worse.  Kinda sweet.  There will always be someone to teach you, and then, there will be someone to make you feel like a badass cause you can teach them later.

The Little Prince says, every adult was once a child.
Every badass was once a lame-o.

Simplicity

The other day girls at my work were looking through US Weekly and wondering why Angelina Jolie always wears black.  Listen up world, cause I know.

1)  She's got a rediculous number of kids and one could spit up on her at any moment.  Black is the best camoflage to spittle.

2)  Lady's saving the world as a Goodwill Ambassador for the UN.  That leaves less time for assembling ensembles.

She throws on a black dress, knows she looks great, grabs a baby or two, and heads out to end world hunger.  The lesson here is if you want to get mad stuff done, you gotta simplify the essentials.  In honor of badassing, I'm simplifying.  But I'm only going to wear red cause I deal with a lot of ketchup at work and, lately, I bleed a lot.

Death and Rebirth: Tale of Toenails

Last January I skied in a pair of boots that were too big, slammed my toes up against the front for a few hours and, to my horror, killed by two big toe nails.  Their death was slow.  First, they bruised.  A few months passed and they became brittle and then, one of the jerks just loosened itself from the body and had to be cut off.  A thin layer of ridged nail was left, thank God, since I expected there to be just goopy skin, but overall, the whole thing was horrifying.  I've scared children, manicurist, female friends, but to my shock and amazement, guys really don't seem to mind.  I was at the beginning of a relationship when the first toenail dropped and not only was the handsome fellow not disgusted, he seemed to like helping me deal with the departure.  He was the hero, I was the wounded gazelle.  Nice.  

Turns out, most dudes have lost a toe nail, and to them, it's no big deal.  Every guy who saw the bruised toenail would say, "oh, you're gonna lose that."  I would pout and say, "but it's going to be sandal season!  I'm disgusting."  The guys would just scoff and move on.  Looking back, the only disgusting thing about the situation is that I would spend time crying over lost toenails.  The other toenail just fell off.  I'll miss it.  It was big and beautiful and really looked good hot pink but it'll be back.  In the mean time, I should probably do some badass volunteer work (note to self:  find charity.  Being this self-involved is not badass.)  After all, some little underprivileged girls can't even afford nail polish for the nails they have.  

OOOOOOHHHHH!  Maybe I could give underprivileged girls manicures?  Start my own charity. That's badass.  I'll be looking for volunteers.  People, just because we've lost toenails, that doesn't mean we don't still have a lot to give. 

Scraped Knees Ain't Just for Kiddies

The entire time I was growing up I had scraped knees. I'd trip on my skip-it, slide wrong coming out of a tree, miss my landing jumping off the swings, and lose a layer of skin. There was always pain but it was a sacrifice I was willing to make for having so much fun. Sadly, it's been years since I've had a scraped knee and I can't help but think that it's a sign that I haven't been having enough fun. All that's in the past though, cause I scraped the crap out of my knee and had to get stitches on my hand! The badass is back and ready to play.

I've always prided myself on not being the type of woman who refuses to kiss a man cause it will ruin my make-up or won't get my hair wet in a pool. I try to prioritize a good time before a good look, but if I'm going to be a badass, I'm going to have to take things a step further. It's time for a confession. Ever since moving to Jackson, I've seen women with mangled skin. Anyone who mountain bikes gets some nasty road rash (cuts and scrapes). I've always thought, secretly, to myself, gross. I never wanted my pretty legs to be cut and gnarly. I thought scars were ok for men, but these women should really be more careful. They were really detracting from their summer dress beauty and men weren't going to think they were attractive. Turns out, somewhere around fourteen, I started sacrificing fun in order to be what I thought was pretty. I've just learned what these women must know: Why be pretty when you can be having the time of your life? And really? What's better looking then someone having an incredible time? Nothing, you fools.

And now it's time for a story: I Fell Off My Bike and I Liked It.

I fell off my bike. Riding back from the river, a short trip, in nothing but a bathing suit, I turned off a paved path onto a gravel road too quickly and skidded over. A rookie mistake. Apparently, a lot of people know about this whole pavement to gravel thing. I didn't. Now, I do.

I was with Shaun and I really didn't want to cry in front of him. The second I hit the ground I prayed, please don't let him do that thing where he babies me and then I turn into a sniveling infant. Luckily, I needn't worry. Shaun is a man of little compassion and much joy. He's made this apparent to me on a number of occasions. This is the same man who after seeing me leave work miserable because I was going through a break up texted me, "hold on to the night. hold on to the memories." I looked up at him from the gravel and said, "I'm fine. Don't freak out." The second my eyes fully focused I realized his face was frozen in a look of awe and excitement.

He said, "That was amazing!" Laughter. More laughter. Big laughter. I nervously giggled as I stood and contemplated wiping the gravel off my leg. What was clinging and what was embedded?

"I totally saw that coming. I watched the whole thing! Don't you feel great?"

"I guess it doesn't hurt that bad."

"Isn't it exhilarating? Aren't you happy you can still do that?"

Blood dripped off my hands. Standing there, in my bathing suit, the pain started to emerge. At first there had been nothing. Now, though, as I stared at an open wound, not scrap, not cut, but gash, a true wound on my hand, it started to burn. It burned until it stung and then stung until it ached. I believe Shaun was now shouting, "You're a badass!" Suddenly, a mini-van is beside me. A bleeding girl in a red bikini with scraped knees stands next to a fallen bicycle and a minivan. That sentence could be used to describe everyone of my k-5th summers. There I was fifteen years later and nothing had changed. As I talked to the dad in the mini-van, I started to feel good. Don't worry about me, sir. I'm fine. Just fell off my bike. Not the first time it's happened and you know what? I hope it's not the last. Shaun's point was sinking in. I can get hurt and it can be worth it. The moments leading up to the crash were definitely worth a scraped knee. I had just floated down a river on my back for the first time ever. I had danced around on the beach. I had raced along laughing hysterically on a bike, something I haven't done in way too long and trust me, the laugh was an incredible one.

If you're pushing yourself to do things you haven't done or do something better then you've ever done it, you're going to fail. You're going to fall. Failing and falling both hurt, but they are things that happen on the way to awesomeness. So what if my pretty little knee is a little less pretty? It's a little less scared and that's worth it being a little more scarred.

Plus, I got five stitches in my hand. I've never had stitches before. I'm a badass.