I have a friend.
My friend wants to go on a hike.
A long hike.
On a tall mountain.
I'm not ready to die.
Or go for a helicopter ride.
I need to prepare.
So this morning, bright and early, I drove myself to BYU campus, parked my sexy mom minivan, and climbed what is lovingly referred to by some as "Heart Attack Hill."
Not once, not twice, but six times. This is harder than it sounds because...
There's a steep little RAMP that takes you up heart attack hill, and there are STAIRS (one hundred and one of them, to be exact) that take you up heart attack hill. I climbed BOTH of them SIX marvelous, toilsome times--EACH. For one solid hour, I went down the ramp, then up the ramp. Down the stairs, then up the stairs. Lather, rinse, repeat. Repeat repeat repeat.
So technically, I climbed it twelve times. Six on the ramp and six on the stairs. Go me.
I obviously did not die, but I was purpler and sweatier and breathlesser than I am when dear old Zac is done with me (see yesterday's post). I kicked my own butt and it felt fan-flippin-fastic!
This was taken right before I tripped over my shoelaces and rolled like a frightened potato bug down the remainder of the ramp. (Ok, not really, but it could totally happen because I'm clumsy, and I thought it sounded really funny when I pictured it happening in my head)
Yes, I said "breathlesser." I call it writer's license.