My Painful, Stiff, Beaverless Death -Part Two

Surprise of all surprises I did not die. Although my muscles are still so tight that my toe touch in yoga has become a “reach just past your hips” touch. I’ve also developed the ungainly habit of rubbing my inner thighs in public. This wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t pair it with groaning “Oh God that’s good” while I massage my sore legs.

After hearing about all the fun I had cross country skiing with Natalie*, my friend Sula* decided she wanted to try the sport. Even after I showed her my almost death note, she kept insisting that it sounded like a good time. Seeing as Sula thinks that weekends spent in shacks without running water and indoor plumbing are a “getaway”,  it was unlikely I could convince her otherwise.

Away we went at eight thirty in the morning. Sula insists on arriving a minimum of thirty minutes early to any destination, so we pulled into the park before it opened. Rather than waiting thirty minutes for the rental shop staff to appear, we decided to embark on a five kilometer hike through the snow to add to our day of excessive physical activity.

When we returned, the chalet had opened, so we suited ourselves up and away we went.  Once again I did two trails. And once again it was exhausting and long. At one point the trail seemed so endless that I laid down in the snow and waited to freeze to death. Unfortunately this proved to be a slow way to go, even slower than my speed of skiing, so I sat up and continued on. At last Sula’s truck came into view and the torture was over.

With all three of my layers sopping wet and squishing with every step, I made my way toward the rental hut. Having marinated in my own juices on the car ride home with Natalie last time, I came prepared with dry clothes to change into for the ride back. What I had not bargained on was how tired I would feel and my lack of desire to walk the two hundred feet to the change room after skiing.

Out of the corner of her eye, while unlacing her boots Sula thought “I think Unwashed is changing in the middle of the rental shop”. A flash of my fleshy, pasty midriff confirmed this a moment later. Luckily I had just pulled on my clean, dry-fit shirt when a bus full of tourists burst into the shop.

The point of this post was to say I am fine, I am still probably coated in sweat and other disgusting things and I have kept up my habit of giving unsolicited shows of nudity. Essentially all is well in the Unwashed world.

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of those who chose not to throw society’s shackles to the wind and eat me alive on the cross country ski trail for energy giving sustenance.

Advertisements

Death By Frozen Tundra

We’ve had cold weather warnings all week here in Canadatown. However this has not stopped me from walking to my beloved haunts like the library and campus. It has meant that I look like a larger, fabric laden version of myself; suiting up in no less than five layers up top and a minimum of two on the bottom.

Do they still count as kankles if I made them by tucking my pants into my socks?

Do they still count as kankles if I made them by tucking my pants into my socks?

Having walked in negative twenty degree temperatures for an hour several times recently, I concluded that today was the perfect day to drag someone who once called himself my friend (possibly no longer) into the wretched, frozen wilderness with me. So off we headed to the local park.

I insisted that we go to the beach. Because it’s January, and who doesn’t love the beach in January?

What we found was this.

I'm standing where the water line was in the summer. In the distance are the ice hills. I enjoy my rotundness.

I’m standing where the water line was in the summer. In the distance are the ice hills. I enjoy my rotundness.

In the summer months the water line began about fifteen feet from the dunes. As a result of this unusually cold winter, the waves have been freezing as they crash against the shore, forming a moonscape made of porous ice mixed with sand. It was stunning. It was rugged. It was so slippery I was reduced to bumbogganing at points. This sounds uncomfortable but I had a far easier time of it than Gordy what with my ample bottom being cushioned by three pairs of pants.photo 2

Initially I was hesitant to climb over the craggy surface, fearing that at any moment the ice would crack and the two of us would plunge into the lake. Luckily Gordy was all “To heck with safety!” and made a beeline for the sandy ice hills.

I followed after him, making sure to listen for sounds of the ice breaking and stepping exactly in his footsteps.

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of vulnerable possibly mentally incapacitated persons. Because those in possession of all of their faculties would not have spent the day wandering about in foot high drifts and exploring ice mountains. Either that or I have a nice friend who didn’t want me doing this alone.