Well this weekend was an adventure. And by "adventure," of course I mean "near-death experience."
If any of you are wondering if you should drive from Chicago to northern Wisconsin in January, I'm going to say NO. And if you any of you are then wondering, "But what if--" I'm going to say, "SHHHHHHHHHHHH. Shhhhh. Shh. No."
Yes, we took a trip up to Mercer, Wisconsin. Lovely, lovely place. Wonderful, wonderful snow. Terrifying, terrifying drive. We actually had to pull-over on the way and spend the night in a hotel. So, awesome. One more Never Have I Ever that I can no longer use. "Never have I ever been so afraid of my life that I had to pull over and spend the night in Mosinee, Wisconsin--damn it, I HAVE done that."
It's a good thing that I had such a great weekend while there. Because if it had been anything less than awesome, 18 total driving hours in a snowstorm (that's right; snow storms both there and back) would have been juuuuuuust enough for an Emily Smash situation. I mean, I know Wisconsin natives hate Chicagoans who drive up and stay at their lake houses, but a) get over it, we're the reason you have tourism and b) you didn't have to create an entire state-wide avalanche to keep us away. Christ.
Luckily, once we were there, there were comfy beds, good friends, warm fireplaces, rocking chairs, homemade breakfasts, and lots and lots of alcohol.
...And a lot of stuffed animals on the walls.
Also, there was Bananagrams, which is like individual Scrabble. I'm no longer allowed to play because apparently I am the Bobby Fischer of Bananagrams. Also, at one point we decided to play Dirty Bananagrams...let's just say one of my words was SEXROBOT and leave it at that.
Then there was cross-country skiing. Which I have never done. And here is my ultimate conclusion about it: screw YOU, cross-country skiing. SCREW. YOU.
They should change the name from "cross-country skiing" to "Here, NOW try to walk."
To be honest, I really liked cross-country skiing. Until it stopped being fun and started being "Damn it guys, WAIT THE HELL UP." I recognize that I'm not a physical specimen in athleticism. I get a little wibbly round the mid-section and YES, I strained a muscle while bench pressing 20 pounds a few weeks ago. But you know what? I get up. I move. I burn some calories, and I do it for ME. And when I'm suddenly thrown into an athletic team effort, it stops being for me, and starts being about either keeping up or trying to not look like an idiot. And if anyone remembers the Falling Down The Stairs On My First Day Of Work incident of '07, I am especially good at looking like an idiot when I am trying very hard not to.
Of course, the extra long, extra skinny pair of skis I got matched with didn't help. It was very reminiscent of the group bike race I did where I was a block behind everyone for hours until I switched with someone for a bike where the wheels actually had air in them. It's like the malfunctioning equipment FINDS ME. "Hey look, that girl looks like she has no natural coordination whatsoever. Quick, make yourself look usable."
Then there's also the fact that my right foot turns out a little when I walk. Which is not a huge deal on a day-to-day basis, but when you emphasize it by attaching a big stick to each foot, yeah. Things get a little sloppy.
And thus ends another athletic activity that I cannot/will not be a part of. Ah well. Somehow I find myself trapped in the middle, between Girls Who Go To Spas and Girls Who Do Outdoor Things. I'm not exactly sure where I sit, but I think it's somewhere near the fireplace with a glass of wine and a book.