This is what all of the climbers call Fontainebleau, the forest we go to every Thursday to go bouldering. It took me a few repetitions to figure out what they were saying because it really just sounds like they got karate-chopped in the throat in the middle of their sentence. The first time I heard it, the conversation went something like this:
“Are you going to bl…”.
“Sorry, what? Are you okay?”
“Uh, yea. This afternoon, are you going to bl….”
“Yea, the same place we go every Thursday.”
“Duh. What did you think I said?”
“… Don’t worry about it.”
Some highlights from the trip:
- I slipped on some underbrush and unceremoniously dumped chalk on my head and the ground. This didn’t involve any climbing or even any rocks.
- I fell on a fellow (male) climber’s head as he was spotting me.
- I intentionally and gracefully jumped down onto the crash pad when I felt my handhold slipping only to have it slide beneath me and plop me down on the ground in a cross-legged position. I reassured everyone I was just trying to have a nice sit in the sun. They didn’t look convinced.
- On the bright side, I made it up a (difficult for me) route that took me about fifteen tries. Everyone else took one or two, but I was still proud of myself.
I realize that the common theme of the day here is falling but I promise I’m not usually this clumsy. Just, well, blonde.
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