fancy trey.

Say hello to the redheaded God. No, not me. I mean Trey Anastasio, the front man from Phish, looking ever so dapper in his performance with the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra.

I'd always wanted to go, but it took Trey coming to town to get me to the symphony for the very first time. I am so glad that he did.

When I told non-Phish fans that I was going, or that I went to this performance, I was greeted with exaggerated eye rolls, lots of laughs, and at least one sarcastic, "Of COURSE you did."

True, the stereotypical Phish fan is hardly the same as a stereotypical symphony fan, but this convergence of musical genius was right up my alley. It was Phish, all gussied up. Country club Phish. Phish in high heels, with overpriced cocktails and chairs with arm rests.

Don't get me wrong, I still love dirty Phish. With overpriced draft beer and lot grilled cheeses.

But seeing hippies at the symphony was worth the price of admission.

And so was the music. " Stash?" With strings and horns? Yes, please. " Inlaw Josie Wales" nearly brought me to tears. Trey was spectacular and the evening goes down as one of the top ten best live music experiences of my life.

I know, that was a little dramatic. Go ahead, roll your eyes.

Day 338: Walk It Out

One of the many reasons (along with my friends, my job, and the weather) that I am so positive about living in Atlanta is because I live close to my office, so I rarely suffer through the intolerable traffic that the city is known for. Door to door, I live a mere 4.4 miles from work and I get to drive through quaint neighborhoods to get there, avoiding the interstate altogether. My company offers free parking across the street from my office, so I drive to work every single day.

On Day 338 I vowed to change my mode of transportation to work, by weighing three options: take MARTA (Atlanta's transit system), ride my bike, or walk.

I'd looked into taking MARTA to work many times. I like living green, I like riding (good head-clearing, read a book time) and I love not spending money on gas.

But when I researched routes, I quickly realized that while possible, taking MARTA from where I live is counter intuitive; the closest MARTA station isn't within walking distance to my house, and riding a bus to get there would take an hour to do what takes me, at most, 15 minutes to do in my car. I'm not against it, but it just seemed like a colossal waste of time. And driving away from the direction I am headed just to ride the train is simply ridiculous.

Riding my bike to work was another option, but I'm not at all confident about my bike-riding skills, especially on the busy downtown streets. I'm willing to look like an idiot for the blog, but since escaping death on Day 195 , I promised I'd do less daredevil-ish challenges. I was so close to hitting the 30-year milestone. To risk ending it all while merely trying to pedal to work just seemed like a mistake.

So straight off enjoying some of the food that Atlanta is famous for at the Varsity, the time had come to tackle another Atlanta-based challenge. A blog activity I'd thought about since I started Project 29 to 30. On Day 338 I took to the streets and walked to work as the thing I've never done before.

To those of you big city dwellers, this probably doesn't sound very impressive. But for me, this was a big deal because Atlanta is not a "walking city." At least that's what people tell me, and almost everyone has a different opinion as to why.

"The city just grew up way too fast!"

"MARTA doesn't go anywhere."

"Everything is so spread out."

Regardless of the reasons why, most of the people I know drive to get where they are going. Neighborhoods are spread out and having a vehicle is almost necessary to get anywhere. I know but a few people who have chosen to live here without wheels and most of them eventually folded and eventually bought a car. It's not ideal; in fact it is one of my least favorite things about Atlanta, but it's reality.

On Day 338, though, I was on a mission to walk my non-walking city. And with a little preparation, I knew I could make it happen. I had a convenient work schedule on my side (I didn't have to be at work until 11am, so I wouldn't have to walk in the dark), the weather was hot (but not raining), and I am a member of the gym at my office, so I could shower and change my clothes before heading to work.

I woke and packed the items that I would need for the walk. An outfit, shoes, toiletries, my wallet, and my Blackberry were all I really had room for in my Jansport (circa 1999) backpack. I dressed in workout clothes, laced up my sneakers, strapped on my iPod and took off for work.

I'm not sure why (all I was doing was walking), but this challenge made me a little nervous. A ridiculous emotion, considering I knew the terrain. Half of the journey to my office was on a route that I run two or three times a week anyway.

Plus, the walk was nice. Relaxing, really. By not driving, I had time to be alone with my thoughts, without the distractions of the radio or traffic. I confess I reached for my Blackberry several times and caught up on work emails, which sort of killed the mind-clearing aspect of the journey, but I eventually forced myself to put it away and just walk. I even made it a point to stop and smell the roses (literally) and even enjoyed the company of a butterfly for one leg of the journey. I discovered about 10 houses that I wanted to buy and confirmed that my yard is significantly more awesome than every other yard in my neighborhood.

The looks I got from neighbors and passersby were sometimes comical; the workout attire I was wearing said, "Girl on morning exercise trip," the book bag screamed, "Student on her way to class." But as much as I'd like to believe that I still do, my days of looking like a college student have long since passed, so I'm sure the look was overall quite confusing.

At the edge of Grant Park, I passed my friend Mark's old house, took a picture of it and emailed it to him in New York.

"Hello from Atlanta! Your house is doing well, just like you left it," I wrote. He loved it.

I stopped for coffee at Ria's Bluebird, a diner on the edge of Grant Park. While waiting for my drink, I caught a glimpse of a man who looked like he could be my friend Trey's dad.

I texted our other friend Philip to tell him. Within a few minutes, Philip called me back.

"I think I just saw a guy that looks exactly like Trey's dad," I yelled into the phone as a car whizzed by.

"What? Where the hell are you?!," he yelled back.

"I'm walking to work," I yelled cheerfully.

"Are you nuts?" he asked.

Indeed I am.

But I don't care. This was a great idea; one that I questioned only once when I had to cross over Interstate 75/85. The sidewalk was wide and I was not at all in danger, but there were some sketchy construction workers who were a little "mouthy," and it killed the relaxation for a bit. Plus the smell of fumes coming from the highway could've done some permanent lung damage.

Once I made it across, I really started to think about Atlanta and its "non-walking city" status. I live in a neighborhood outside of downtown, and I never had to venture from a sidewalk. I don't think I'm on a plight to single handedly make Atlanta a walking city, but when my work schedule allows for it, I'd definitely like to do this again. And since, I've considered all of the other places I used to drive to that I could walk to instead and I've done it.

I arrived at work (an hour and twenty minutes later) both relaxed and energized. Sweaty, and in need of a shower, but feeling great. I had already exercised for the day and had already done my blog activity. I'm sure there were a lot of factors in play there, but I credit the walk for making Day 338 a really good day.

When it was time to go home, however, my co-worker Alta was none too pleased that I was attempted to brave the tough Atlanta streets on my own. I was fighting daylight, so the walk home was much faster than the morning. I think I might've even jogged a few times. And while I encountered a few crazies, I definitely hit more on my way there in the morning than I did on the way home.

Who said Atlanta isn't a walking city? I walked it out.

Day 285: What Goes Around, Comes Around

After seeing Bronson get iced on Day 280, I knew it was only a matter of time before I would attempt to ice someone myself.

Day 285 was the day, Philip was the victim.

He and I and some of our other friends had been at a first birthday party for Karen and Ged's daughter, Jane. So naturally, after eating cake and ice cream with all of the kiddos, the next logical place to go to continue the party would be a dive bar (Mr. C's) to have some drinks.

So we did, demonstrating how my life continues to be a contradiction in terms: one-half 1st birthday parties, the other half seedy bars with tax-paying, contributing adults who act like irresponsible children.

It was at Mr. C's that the "icing" went down. I bought the Smirnoff Ice and made Paul present it. He secured the Smirnoff between his back right hip and his pants. He walked over to Philip and lifted his shirt slightly asking Philip to have a look at something's that had been irritating his back.

Philip did, found the Smirnoff, and was, therefore, iced. He took it down like a man, like Bronson had, but refused to get out of his chair to take a knee. We hazed him for a second, but eventually let it go.

I sat back, pretty excited, and proud, that Day 285's thing I've never done before was to ice someone. I don't know why it never occurred to me that this would be enough for everyone. I should know that I shouldn't dish it out if I can't take it, because as I was leaning back to enjoy the rest of the evening, my new friend Doug came over to where I was sitting with a bottle of Smirnoff Ice poking out of his pants.

"You're up!" he said.

"What?," I asked, "No way!"

Day 285's thing I've never done before was to ice someone and then get iced myself.

I had no choice to take it like a man just as I had seen Bronson and Philip do it.

I even got down on one knee, despite the fact that I was wearing a dress and we were in Mr. C's. And then about halfway through I realized I was wearing a dress and I was in Mr. C's, so I stood up to finish the Smirnoff Ice.

Is it crazy to say that I actually like the way Smirnoff Ice tastes? There is something very redneck and high school about it. Perhaps that's why I like it.

"I'd like to get iced," Mindy said. We all gave her a look like she was crazy.

"You can't be serious," I said, taking my seat at the table.

Then she smiled as she looked at us and then at her boyfriend, Charles. I realized she wasn't talking about the Smirnoff kind of ice.

And sadly, this is where my icing career ends.

I think.

I hope.

Day 279: Zingo All the Way Home

For the third and fourth days of the southeast Phish tour, the band came to Alpharetta, Georgia, a suburb north of Atlanta. On one hand, their decision to play there made perfect sense because the venue is new and clean and nice. But I was also confused because this was Phish, and the amphitheatre felt almost too new, too clean, and too nice.

The venue choice also presented a dilemma to those of us who live inside the city because it was close enough to not necessarily warrant buying a hotel room, but far enough away to require safe, alternative transportation for anyone planning to consume adult beverages.

I opted to sleep in my own bed that weekend, so Day 279's thing I've never done before was to use Zingo Transportation.

Zingo was founded and exists on the understanding that one of the reasons that people drive after having too many drinks is because they don't want to wake up the next day without their car. A Zingo driver will actually drive your car home for you.

I give all the credit to my friends Philip and Scott for this idea. They use the service for a lot of Georgia games geting to and from Athens. For the Phish concert, we drove my car up to Alpharetta, tailgated for a little bit and then went into the show.

After the concert was over, the plan was to meet the Zingo driver back at my car. It occurred to me just before meeting him that I wasn't exactly sure how this service worked, or what was going to happen when we got back to our destination in Atlanta. Once I saw the driver in the parking lot, though, wearing a helmet, holding a clipboard, and sitting on a folding motorbike, it started to make sense.

That's right, I said, "folding motorbike."

I feel the need to repeat it over and over again because I did not know such a thing existed until this night. Once I did, and once I took a seat on it, I wanted everyone to know about it. I was so fascinated by this piece of machinery, and by this driver and his clipboard, I didn't know what to do with myself. I think I asked the driver a dozen questions about how it worked, how long he'd been a Zingo driver, what's the craziest thing that ever happened to him on a pickup, and of course, more about the folding motorbike.

I took so much time asking him questions about the service and the motorbike, that it didn't occur to me that my entire group was waiting for me at the car. Philip had called my cell phone repeatedly telling me to bring the driver to the car so we could go. If it was up to me, I would've ditched my car and everyone else to take the motorbike back to Atlanta, but I don't think the driver was up for it.

So we went through with the original plan to pile into my car. The Zingo driver put his folding motorbike in my trunk, and he drove us home. Like any cab driver, he had to endure us shouting at him and at each other about how awesome the show was and what our favorite part was.

When we arrived at our destination, we paid him, he took his super awesome motorbike out of the trunk and sped away. We were safe, nobody drove irresponsibly and in the morning, I woke up and my car was right there.

Everyone wins with Zingo. Especially the driver with the folding motorbike.

Day 252: Free Parking, Free Rice

Because I was so concerned making my recycled bridesmaids dress look like something other than a bridesmaids dress, I was almost late to Dan and Karen's wedding on Day 251. When I pulled into the Decatur Square, I found the first open spot I could find, and quickly parked my car.

The sign in front of the space read, "15 Minute Parking." My thinking was that I'd run into the wedding, then run out and move my car before the reception. If I know Dan, his wedding ceremony wasn't lasting much longer than 15 minutes.

As I started to leave, I told my friends where I was going and they all told me to stop. "Where are you going to move your car?," they asked. I didn't know, but certainly I couldn't leave it there.

Or could I?

"Don't move it," they all said, explaining that any ticket I might get would be cheaper than paying to park.

That reasoning seemed logical at the time, and I really didn’t want to leave the party to move my car, so I did as they suggested.

When I went back the next day to pick up my car, I imagined it might be covered in tickets, maybe even a boot, hell, it could’ve been towed for all I knew! But when Philip took a right into the Decatur loop right past the courthouse, I was delighted to see that my car was still there, ticket-free.

This story has nothing to do with things I've never done before. As someone who abhors paying for parking, though, I was elated that my 15 minute parking space yielded more than 16 hours of free parking. The city of Decatur rules.

After Philip and I grabbed lunch at the Brick Store, I returned to my house to do more lounging, because other than eating, that's all I really felt like doing. I was horizontal for most of the day, not thinking of doing something I’d never done before until it was almost too late.

I Googled, “stuff to do when you’re bored,” hoping that I could find something to do that I'd never done before. Sure enough, I found something. Thank you, Internet!

Day 252’s thing I’ve never done before was to contribute several pounds of rice to those in need via www.FreeRice.com.

FreeRice.com is a non-profit website that hosts word games anyone can play. For every correct answer, the organization donates 10 grains of rice through the World Food Programme to help end hunger.

Educational, philanthropic, and easy. The ultimate blog activity trifecta.

Playing was easy, but the words were hard. Or maybe I'm just an idiot.

Festal means:

dilapidated
laborious
honeycombed
joyous

Festal = joyous (I got this one wrong)

Currish means:

unappreciated
leaping
snarling
pallid

Currish = snarling (Correct!)

conscript = draftee, numismatist = coin collector, Muhajara = prince, wail = lament, forsake = abandon, amulet = magic charm

I played for a while, taking frequent breaks to watch Keeping up with the Kardashians, likely offsetting any educational benefit I could've gained.

But I've visited this website often since that day and continue learning words I'll never be able to use in conversation. And I've donated more than ten pounds of rice to those who really need it.

FreeRice.com is a winner.

Day 209: Diaper Cakes and Frat Parties

On Day 210, I was hosting a baby shower for my friend and former college roommate, Rebecca. Sound familiar?

Well that’s because 2010 has been the year of the baby shower, so I've already included my other roommate Ashley and her baby shower and her baby Robert in the blog.

This is my other roommate, though. This is Rebecca.

All of my former roommates are having babies.

I'm writing a blog.

Whatever.

Besides not knowing much about babies myself, I've eagerly signed up to host baby showers for my friends. And for this one, I was looking to stretch my creative arm and try to make something crafty that I’ve seen at nearly all of the baby showers that I’ve gone to this year.

On Day 209, I attempted to make a diaper cake.

For my male audience, I’m sure you’ve checked out by now, having already read the words “baby” and “diaper.” If you stick with me, though, we’ll get to the end of the day where I attend an adult fraternity party as another thing I’ve never done before.

But for now, it's back to the diaper cake.

I said I "attempted" this diaper cake, because I wouldn’t call the effort that I put into completing this craft anything more than an attempt. And I’m going to have to blame that on Day 208. Because after experiencing the trauma and humiliation that is a bikini wax, I celebrated the experience with a My Morning Jacket concert and a very late night.

So when Day 209 rolled around and it was time to construct the diaper cake, I was feeling less than enthused about it, and far less confident that I could pull it off.

I consulted some websites, all of which had different instructions on how to do it, some using just diapers, others filling the diapers with rolled up clothes and trinkets. I needed some hands on training, though, so I pulled myself off my couch and drove to Kyle's store to seek her assistance.

Since making her first diaper cake that our friend Maribeth actually thought was a real cake, Kyle has been the resident diaper cake officiando, making them for several of our friends and several of her colleagues' friends. I joke that diaper cakes are her side job.

Ahead of going to Kyle's, I bought a jumbo box of Pampers swaddlers, small diapers made for newborns. Buying diapers is not something that I have ever done, and now having attempted that too, I'm convinced no single people should ever do. Or maybe it's just me. I found the experience to be confusing, and unnecessarily frustrating, like the baby product people are trying to screw with you.

There are far too many categories, all labeled by some weird system, that unless you have a baby yourself, you're probably not going to understand. Would it be so hard for diapers to be sized small, medium, and large? I don't understand why you can't see what the diaper looks like unless you open the entire package. And I don't understand why diapers have cheesy designs on them and why some of them are tinted blue. Why can't they all be white?

When I arrived, Kyle looked at the box of diapers that I bought. There were 64 in the package.

"Are those all the diapers you have?" Kyle said.

"Yes," I told her. "Do you think I need more?"

She nodded her head, indicating that I would. She also said that she thought I should buy generic diapers. It's cheaper, she said.

Makes sense. We went ahead and she started showing me how to roll the diapers with rubberbands. When we reached a stopping point, she made me a list, telling me what was on it and then she instructed me to go to Michael's craft store.

I soon found out that not buying enough diapers and not buying generic ones would be the least of my worries that day.

I went to Michael's, Kyle's list in hand. Actually, not in hand. I tossed it into the abyss that my purse has become and never saw it again.

I remembered what she told me I would need: rubberbands, thick decorative ribbon, a cardboard circular disc (usually used for a real cake) to set the cake on, and, if I wanted, wooden figurines for the front of the cake.

Before even attempting 365 things that I've never done before, I had a pretty good idea at the things that I'm good at and ones that I'm not. I'm not really crafty at all. So I knew that making a diaper cake wasn't going be the easiest thing for me, despite Kyle's ability to make it look easy. But with all of the things I've managed to accomplish this year (sky-diving, a polar bear plunge, speed blind dating), I didn't think that shopping at Michael's Craft Store would be the experience that would bring me to my knees.

But sure enough, I had a Category 5 meltdown.

I blame this on a lot of factors, starting first with my own state of mind. Plus I was strapped for time. Plus it's Michael's. Not exactly the kind of place for first-timers. I sincerely think, now having had this experience, that they should ban amateur crafters like myself from entering. They should have a bouncer outside that checks your craft abilities before you walk in the place.

I wandered up and down the aisles, locating the ribbon first. My indecisiveness made choosing ribbon one of the most difficult tasks ever. I chose a light pink ribbon with hot pink polka dots.

And then I wandered some more, locating some sort of wooden trinkets, all of which seemed tacky to me and not good enough for my diaper cake. I was off to try and find the cardboard cake stand when Andrew called me to talk about plans for later that night. I saw his name pop up on caller ID and I should've ignored it, but picked up the call, causing me to lose my train of thought in a store where I already felt out of place. We rehashed the previous night for several minutes when I realized I had wasted far too much time.

"Andrew, I have to go," I finally muttered hastily. I hung up quickly and tried to refocus.

I found the cardboard cake disc, but only in a package of eight. Perhaps I'd have an opportunity to make seven additional diaper cakes, but at this point, I just wanted one. I bought the 8-pack. I had no choice.

I continued looking for the wooden figurines, not ready to give up on that idea. I started sweating though, holding a pink dragonfly in the palm of my hand and then putting it back. And then picking it up. And then putting it back.

I finally took the ribbon and the cardboard cake discs to the checkout counter and left.

When I returned to Kyle, she admitted she was a little concerned about my whereabouts. I told her I'm not cut out for places like Michael's and then showed her what I'd purchased: one spool of ribbon, two bags of rubberbands and an 8-pack of the cardboard cake discs.

She looked confused. When I asked her if I'd forgotten something, she laughed and said, "Well, I said I needed two spools of ribbon, one bag of rubberbands, and one cake disc."

Seriously, Stephanie. This is not that hard.

"And more diapers," she said.

Gah!

In my defense, the cardboard cake thing was only available in the 8-pack. At least as far as I could tell. Plus, I knew Michael's wouldn't have diapers, so I walked next door to CVS and bought more, this time bigger ones, and of the generic variety.

Once again, collossal failure. When I got them back to Kyle, we opened them and found them to be a completely different style, color, and design than the first ones that I bought. These had a blue tint.

Why is this diaper cake the worst decision ever?

I took the half-opened diapers back to CVS and tried again, this time buying the exact same name brand, small diapers I bought from the beginning. The teenaged cashier wanted to talk to me about diapers, assuming having been in there to buy them twice, that I would've too. I did not, obviously, and tried to leave in a hurry.

I returned to Kyle's store, stressed and exhausted. The stress caused me to blow my 12-days of vegetarianism on a microwaveable White Castle cheeseburger, courtesy Kyle's co-worker and friend, Mendy. Unfortunately, even red meat couldn't help me in this situation.

Once we had a random assortment of supplies, all that we had left to do was to construct the cake. Kyle, not used to working under such conditions with such crappy materials, did the best she could to get me started and to show me how it needed to be done.

In fact, she constructed two of the three layers with little to no help from me at all. I promised her I'd go to Michael's on my way home and pick up another spool of ribbon to complete the project. If she could just get me started, I could pick it up where she left off.

"And," I told her, "I got this oversized Rubber Duck to go on top of it," I said excitedly, certain she would be thrilled with this innovative idea.

She was not. She looked at me like I was both crazy and a redneck with absolutely no class whatsoever.

"It's supposed to be a floppy, stuffed animal," she said. "The animal's legs are supposed to hang over the sides."

"Oh yeah," I said, nodding, "I know. But I decided to go with a beach theme. And the duck is really cute."

She did not look impressed and though she never said so, she gave me a look like, "I'd rethink that plan if I were you."

I stuck with my theme and finished my multi-colored and multi-textured, ghetto style diaper cake. It took one more trip to another Michael's, a completely different ribbon choice, and when it was done, it had a giant rubber duck sitting on the top of it. Since I ran out of diapers (just like Kyle said I would), I was forced to roll up the outfit I'd bought baby Edie and make it a part of the cake.

Despite my failure at nearly every turn, the cake was a huge hit on Day 210. Rebecca loved it. I think I'm going to continue to outsource my craft projects to Kyle, but at least I know when push comes to shove, I can make a diaper cake.

And then it was time to party.

Admittedly, part of the stress in finishing the cake was that I was also doing something at night on Day 209 that I had never done before that I had to get ready for.

My friend Paul had asked me that morning if I would be his date to the 9 o'clocks spring party later that evening at Piedmont Driving Club.

The 9 o'clocks is an all-male social club that several of my friends are members of. The group has two parties every year, one in the spring and one on New Year's Eve. Those who are members are not shy about the fact that the organization's entire existence is for the parties.

I'd like to say that this was the first time I'd ever been asked out for a date on the same day as the date, but it is not (I'm not sure what this says about me, but I'm sure it isn't good). I know the southern lady in me should have said no, and demanded that he ask me days in advance, but the reputation of these parties made me curious and I wanted to go, so I said, "yes."

Paul had to go to a wedding, so we arrived after dinner, just in time for the first of two bands and a DJ that would fill the evening's entertainment line-up. In that regard, I'd say we arrived right on time.

I was a little intimidated, and somewhat turned off, by the exclusivity of this group. I wondered if I'd feel out of place. I mean, I did go to public school, after all. But when I got there, I saw that this party was nothing more than an adult fraternity band party with tuxedos and fancy dresses. It was less like some exclusive party and more like the greatest wedding I'd ever been to where no one got married.

I suppose upon further investigation we could talk about the social injustices and potential snobbery associated with such a group, but I'd rather not. Plus, I can't, and wouldn't, because the party was freaking fun. I had a blast and everyone that I met was super nice.

Plus, I got to watch my friend Philip accidentally dump a woman's purse out onto the floor and middle aged white men get their groove on to Yacht Rock. Not a bad way to spend a Saturday night.

This day was like a giant metaphor for my life. One hand in diaper cakes, and the responsibility of babies and adulthood, the other hand still holding on to fraternity parties, not wanting to let my spontaneous, fun side ever go.

Part of me wonders if that feeling of being trapped between two sides of myself will ever change. Part of me hopes it never does.

Day 202: Can Somebody Please Belay Me?

I was out celebrating my successful story time with my friend Philip when I randomly ran into my other friends Maribeth and Brandon in Little Five Points. They had been eating dinner nearby and said they were leaving the bar soon because they were getting up early to drive to Chattanooga, Tennessee.

"I want to go!," I said. "Can I come?"

They said, "Sure."

Philip was listening to the conversation. He furrowed his brow and gave me a look like, "Are you crazy?" Less because I was agreeing to rock climb, more so because who makes a decision to tag along on an out of state rock climb at 12:30am?

Answer: people drinking Stellas attempting to do 365 things they've never done before.

I ignored Philip, and told Maribeth that I was serious. I really wanted to go.

When I woke up at 7am on Saturday morning, however, I did not want to go. In fact, I laid in bed for 20 minutes and went back and forth, with myself, about whether or not I should just blow the whole thing off.

The internal dialogue went something like this:

"Get up, loser! When else are you going to have an opportunity to rock climb?"

"Ughhhhhh...sleeeeeeep...I have a headache. I need sleeeeeeeeep."

"Stephanie, you can sleep on the way to Tennessee. These are serious rock climbers who know what they are doing. Just get up!"

"This bed is sooooo comfortable. I want to sleeeeeeeeeeeeep."

I texted Maribeth, "I don't think I'm going to make it. You guys have fun!"

And then after beating myself up about being so lame, I forced myself to get up and texted her again, "Nevermind. I'm coming. Don't leave without me."

The ride to Tennessee was, for me, painful. Thankfully Brandon was in the driver's seat and Maribeth was riding shotgun, so I stretched out in the backseat and slept, waking only when we went to a gas station to pick up breakfast (McDonald's) and lunch (Subway). This was, as I mentioned on the start of vegetarian week, the first time I'd ever bought breakfast and lunch at the same time.

Pardon the pun, but buying two meals at the same time felt like rock bottom.

When we arrived at Sunset Rock on Lookout Mountain in Chattanooga, I was surprised that we go there by way of a very nice, seemingly exclusive neighborhood at the top of the mountain. The houses we were passing were gorgeous, and likely boasted some of the greatest views in the city. We met up with our friends Jeremy, Megan and Dustin, and parked our car in a gravel lot next to the nice houses.

The hike down the mountain to where we would climb reminded me a lot of hike I did with California Kevin and Mountain Man in Yosemite right down to me wearing my super radical, super outdoorsy Marmot fanny pack. Lots of greenery, lots of scenic views.

Only this time we had dogs. Now, I love dogs. I do not love them, however, when they are wandering close to the edge of cliffs. I was already worried that I would soon plummet to my death. Now I was worrying about the pooches doing the same.

We made it to the rock that we were going to climb and I was a bit confused because while I didn't expect to see thousands of bolts screwed into the rock for us to climb, I thought that I would at least see crevices in the rock for us to put our hands and feet while climbing.

There were but a few.

Jeremy and his friend Dustin stayed behind while we hiked to set up the ropes that we would be using to climb. Once they made it down to where we were, there was still some more setting up that needed to be done. I marveled at how much gear is needed to rock climb.

Maribeth, Brandon and I stayed out of their way, enjoying the mountain air.

At one point Maribeth stood up and started rooting through her bag, pulling out a harness and her own rock climbing shoes. Maribeth and I are pretty close. I know and/or participate in nearly all of the hobbies that she does, so to say I was surprised is an understatement.

"Since when are you a rock climber?," I said.

She laughed and kind of took a step back from her gear, almost in a, "What? This old stuff?" kind of way.

"Haven't you ever heard about my awful experience at Atlanta Rocks?" Atlanta Rocks is an indoor rock climbing gym.

"No," I said.

"Oh yeah," she went on, "I decided when I moved back from Jacksonville that I wanted to learn how to rock climb so I bought all of this equipment. And then I went to the gym and left in tears when I realized I didn't have anyone to belay me."

She burst out laughing remembering this experience, and therefore, so did I.

Her move back to Atlanta was tough enough; the thought of her standing at the base of the manufactured rock with all of her equipment in her hands with no one to help her was both sad and hilarious all at the same time. Extra sad that her plan, I presumed, was to go to Atlanta Rocks to possibly meet someone, a cute someone who would've been more than happy to belay her.

"Certainly," I insisted, "There were dudes there that could've helped you out."

"Nope," she said, still laughing. "Everyone there was with someone!"

Ouch. Add rock climbing to the long list of things singles can't do, I guess.

Dustin and Jeremy went first and made it look easy. They hit a handful of difficult climbs along the way, and I got to see how rock climbing is as much of a mental challenge as it is a physical one. Brandon, also a beginner, but fresh from a tour of duty in Afghanistan showed his strength as well. He may not have been as smooth, but he got to the top impressively.

I decided, after all of the boys took a turn, that I would go first for the girls. Not because I was so excited to take on the challenge, but because my nerves were getting the best of me, and I wanted to get it over with. No question, since I’m constantly trying new things, I’m nervous a lot. But at this point, I hadn't eaten meat in five days, I had jumped out of a plane just a week prior, and faced 20 kindergarteners the day before. This week was emotionally and physically exhausting.

Maribeth offered me her shoes. She wears a half-size smaller than me, but insisted I'd be able to wear them. I started putting them on and it felt like I was stuffing a 15 pound load into a 12 pound bag. They were entirely too small.

"They're supposed to be tight," Maribeth assured me.

Well, then, mission accomplished. They were definitely tight.

Now I am already self-conscious of my legs and of the fact that I have, thanks to my mother, cankles, the kind of leg where the calf more or less becomes the foot with little to no ankle definition whatsoever. My friend Amanda at work insists that I do not have cankles, and she has gone to great lengths to point out others who do have them so that we can compare mine to theirs.

Well, in Maribeth's rock climbing shoes, there was no question; even Amanda would have to agree. I had cankles. Serious ones.

The tightness of the shoes made any and all extra skin and fat on my feet squeeze out to my ankle. Thank God I was wearing long pants because it was embarrassing. And disgusting.

Plus, the shoes really hurt my feet and it was hard to get used to how tight they were.

I climbed up onto the first rock/platform where I would begin the climb. Megan assisted me in putting on my harness, which was quite similar to the harness that I wore skydiving the week before. As if my cankles weren’t unattractive enough, I now had more ropes squeezing the top part of thighs and stomach.

She asked her husband, Jeremy, if she could belay me.

Megan looked at me and said, "Is that okay with you?"

Belaying is crucial in rock climbing. The belayer is the person attached to the climber who stays standing and weights the climber, like an anchor. If the climber should fall, their attachment to a belayer would ensure they wouldn’t fall very far.

Obviously I didn't care who belayed me and most everyone except me (and Maribeth) seemed capable of doing so. I was concerned, however, about the difference in Megan's weight and mine. If I fell, there was a great chance that I would cause her to fly wildly in the air or tip over completely.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?," I asked.

She and Jeremy assured me it would be fine, and I believed them, so I went with it.

The nerves I was feeling here were similar to the nerves I felt when I went skiing with Elizabeth and company in Tahoe. The “I have no idea what I’m doing, but I don’t want to make a fool of myself in front of all these people who do,” kind of nerves. That’s, I think, why skiing and rock climbing seemed much scarier to me than skydiving—all activities are scary, but adding the fear of being embarrassed on top of it makes some challenges extra terrifying.

After everything was clipped and secure, it was time to go for it.

“Stick your hand in Jeremy's chalk bag,” Megan said, seconds before I turned around to start the climb.

The phrase sounded dirty and I laughed out loud when she said it.

“Wow, Megan,” I joked, “Way to just offer me an opportunity to touch your husband's chalk bag. It's kinky. And I like it.”

The chalk was for my hands, to keep them from slipping. I happily did as I was told, knowing full well that I was going to need a lot more than the chalk in Jeremy's bag to make this experience successful. I wished Jeremy had an "athletic ability" bag or a "miracle" bag.

After I was appropriately chalked, I turned around and stared at the wall. There were no obvious grooves or shelves that I could see to put my feet or hands on. Just straight, smooth rock.

I heard Dustin ask Jeremy quietly, "Has she really never done this before?"

"No."

"Wow."

My feelings exactly, Dustin. Actually, my feelings were more of the four-letter variety, but "wow" was appropriate too.

I turned around and sort of whiningly said, "I mean, I don't even know where to start."

Immediately, everyone jumped in and started giving me suggestions on how to start, where to put my hands and feet.

Rock climbing requires you to rely so much on the people with you to guide you to places you can't see, places that can get you to the next level. I liked this. There was an instant feeling of community and camaraderie.

"Put your hand in that crack," someone shouted to me, “And pull yourself up.”

Again, with the dirty talk. Another reason to love rock climbing.

With their help, I was able to achieve far more climbing than I ever could've imagined, which really wasn't that much. The shoes, while squeezing my feet past the point of recognition, were extremely helpful in allowing me to literally climb up the flat rock. I don’t know how, but I’m sure it must’ve been the shoes that allowed me to pull that off. I didn’t make it very far, and grew frustrated several times when my friends were saying, “Just grab that,” or “Just a little bit farther.” There was nothing about rock climbing that was “just” anything. There were some great achievements on my brief time on the rock, but I soon reached a point and physically had no strength to pull and no mental capacity to figure out how to move on. I was tired and when I turned around to see everyone staring at me, I started to feel sick, so I asked to come down.

Repelling was my favorite part because you just let go of the rock, lean back and let the belayer ease you back down to the ground. Everyone was really supportive and said they were impressed by my performance, particularly because I hadn’t ever done it before. They also informed me, after I was safely on the ground, that this climb was not for beginners. Thanks for telling me now.

After my piss-poor performance, it was Megan's turn. I had asked earlier what kind of body type makes a good rock climber and everyone agreed that long limbs make the difficult reaches easier to accomplish. Megan proved that those without long limbs can still dominate, and her petite frame leapt to the top like a spider monkey. I was super impressed.

Maribeth’s was unable to overcome her experience at Atlanta Rocks, and made it to the same spot on the rock that I did. She seemed frustrated. I couldn't blame her.

I'd be frustrated too if I'd come out there with my own harness.

Day 77: Laughing (not really) All the Way

After Lisa and I went to the Christmas Tree Farm, we grabbed dinner at Taco Stand and she said would be down for more blog adventures the next time I needed a friend. I told her there were plenty of holiday options to accomplish in December: ice-skating, gingerbread houses, Christmas caroling.

I'm not sure how we came to the decision that Day 77's thing I'd never done would be to go Christmas caroling, but it felt like a good Sunday thing to do. We texted our friend Philip to come with us. Well, we didn't exactly tell him what we were doing, just that we wanted him to come.

"Don't make plans for next Sunday," the text read.

Philip texted me back, understandably confused. No less than 20 text messages later, he finally agreed to come hang out with Lisa and me, so long as our activities didn't involve moving. He actually said that via text message ("I'll do whatever as long as I don't have to move anything"). I meant to ask him what that was all about, assuming he must've had a moving horror story worth hearing, but I forgot. We figured if we got Philip to Taco Stand for a couple of beers, we could get him to come along with us for whatever we were going to do.

"No way," Philip said when I finally spilled the beans we were taking him to Christmas carol. "Are you insane?"

"Yes. You already knew this about me."

We continued eating and finished our beers, Philip still refusing to come caroling. He and Lisa both claimed they didn’t know any Christmas carols.

“Even Rudolph the Red-nosed reindeer? Jingle Bells?”

I pulled the lyrics to both songs up on my blackberry. Not knowing the words to the songs was not going to a viable excuse for getting out of singing. I found it sad that they both claimed to not know the words to songs that we’ve all been singing since we were kids. As my mom says in reference to the caroling trips we used to take as children, “if you need a song sheet for Jingle Bells, you probably shouldn’t be celebrating Christmas.”

Philip held strong that he would not go caroling. Well, then, what other “Christmasy” activity are we going to do, I asked. Lisa threw out ice-skating at the St. Regis hotel. It was expensive, but I said fine. I still wanted to carol, but I was outnumbered. Philip’s reluctance had rubbed off on Lisa.

We walked out of the restaurant, and I demanded that Philip ride with us, certain that if I let him drive his own car that he would ditch us. We rode over to the St. Regis, but they were already closed.

Caroling it was!

My plan was to go to our friend Andrew's house first. I figured the possibility of completely freaking Andrew out could possibly turn Philip's opinion around about this little excursion.

Philip said no. Andrew was on his way back from a not-as-fun-as-expected weekend in Birmingham. There was a good chance he wasn't even at home and if he was, our three faces were the last things he'd want to see.

I had in that time, found a miniature bell in my car from a wedding reception. I gave it to Philip and told him that he didn't have to sing, he could just ring the bell. He seemed to like it.

The next on our list of victims for the caroling were our friends Kyle and Greg. Their house was nearby so we headed straight there.

On the way, I felt like a frazzled, nagging mother with my two whining children in the backseat bitching and moaning in the back telling me they didn't want to go.

"We're doing it for the blog and you're going to like it!" I felt like screaming, but didn't.

Truth be told, I'm not sure Philip even knows I have a blog. Dropping that bomb might've been disastrous, so I left it out.

We arrived at Kyle and Greg's front porch and knocked on the door. Teddy, their dog, immediately ran to the door barking loudly. Greg, who likely caught a glimpse of stupid faces from down the hall opened the door. We immediately started singing and Philip started ringing the bell.
Greg bent down to deal with the dog and before I could even get to the chorus of Jingle Bells, he was gone, leaving us standing there mumbling the words to the song to a door that was cracked.

He eventually came back, but not before we realized that caroling was a bust. Actually Lisa and Philip seemed to know that caroling was going to be a bust from the start. I remained confident until this happened.

I think the trick here, and with any activity like this is full commitment. Every person, regardless of how silly the challenge is, has to be invested and ready to make it happen. With two less than eager participants, this plan was dead on arrival.

Caroling was not a success. Not even a little bit. But involving people in the blog that don't know about it was a great success. I'm already brainstorming.