Oh bouldering gym. Where to begin.
I admit, I didn’t really want to see you last night, but my roommate begged me to come along so she wouldn’t be the only girl in the group and the awkwardness would be kept at bay, so I caved. (The awkwardness was not quite kept at bay as conversation soon turned to that gentle topic, the passing of kidney stones).
Now I know I am only a novice and have much to learn. But why does it have to be so painful! My poor toes squished into those hideous pointy shoes. My hands, dry and cracked and chalky…and are these calluses I see forming?! But more painful by far, the succumbing to defeat. For, alas, I could only get halfway through two of your simplest courses.
Oh, bouldering gym. Your fake plastic rocks taunted my feeble grip while other really cool, super muscular hippyish climbers with their impressive climbing lingo and personalized chalkbags swooped effortlessly over the walls like that highly acclaimed spider up the waterspout.
They didn’t say anything, but they didn’t have to. I could read it in their eyes. “You, in that orange hoodie and those ridiculous corderoy pants. Don’t you know better than to climb in corderoy pants? I bet you’ve never eaten a clif bar in your life, you pansy.”
I’ll hand it to you, BG. You beat me this time. I don’t even have a decent threat to spit at you. But someday I will think of one, and it will be awesome.