Climbing mountains is for Sherpas

It is a universally acknowledged fact that I am not a girl that likes mountains. Yes, mountains are pretty and Bob Ross always painted pretty little mountains with lots of trees and their friends, but mountains are steep, cold and hard to climb. I will never understand why anyone would want to climb one for fun. Imagine my surprise when I learned I had accidentally married someone who thinks it might be fun.

It started harmlessly enough. Hiking here and there in the Smokies. A climb to Chimney Tops in the afternoon even though it’s two miles straight up. A climb to Angels’s Landing in Zion National Park which is enough to make someone with vertigo faint just looking at the pictures.

People climb this insane death trap for fun. Really.

Sometimes I staggered along for the ride, most of the time I had the common sense to stay at the hotel and have hot rocks put on my back at the spa while Troy cheated death. Recently, Troy started talking about climbing Mount Rainier. Say what? Next, he started watching that annoying Everest show on Discovery where all those people die while freezing their ass off in thin air 26,000 feet up. Seriously. My last flight to Kansas City stayed around 26,000 feet and it never occurred to me that I could sit on a mountain ledge that high.

You might ask yourself, what does one do to train for a climb? The answer is work out. A lot. This is the part where marrying someone in excellent shape starts to suck. I bought a six pack of cupcakes with cream cheese frosting to share. I offer him one and he says, “they’ll make me fat”.  This from the man who swore chocolate was one of the four main food groups and that the actual commandment in the Bible was wrong and was supposed to read “Thou shalt not adulterate chocolate.”  Since it’s difficult to claim that healthy eating/living is bad for him, I can’t really in good conscience sabotage him. This forces me to actually play along. I ride the cross trainer now most weeks three times for God’s sake.  I have always lived by the mantra that I don’t run unless I am chased. Ever.

The real problem is the Third Law of Thermodynamics. If matter cannot be created or destroyed, but only transferred in form, then if Troy is losing weight and getting all buff, those fat molecules have to go somewhere and I’m in the direct line of fire. So far, I’ve successfully hidden behind Sunshine:

Not really a dog, more like a fat walrus.

Those molecules are out there flying around though and it’s a matter of time before they hit my ass and stick.

The complicated world of designing a restaurant booth

Because I am lazy, I spent a good hour this afternoon wasting time reading useless sites like (should I care that Tila Tequila refused to cough up her dead girlfriend’s dogs to Nicky Hilton?) and (how to knit a penis warmer. Seriously – check it out.). Laziness always pays off because if I had been more productive and done actual work, I would never have learned the reason restaurant booth sizes vary so much. The secret: they are building them bigger to accommodate fat people. This makes some sense. If you are going to an all you can eat buffet for $9.99, they better have more space between the table and Junior to allow him to squeeze in.

This all started because I wanted to know how many minutes I had to stay on the cross trainer to work off two martinis and some J. Alexander mac and cheese. I still don’t know how long, but I do know that J Alexanders has made their booths wider to allow people to eat their mac and cheese without feeling constricted. Pure marketing genius.

This brings me to my next point. Let’s talk about seat height for booths. I have a substantial chest. The kind that makes me look for things called “Seven Wonders Bra” to keep the puppies in check. So knowing that the pups are front and center on women, why do they design dining booth tables that hit exactly at nipple height? Who’s the genius that designed this? I’m guessing someone who was accused of being on the IBT Committee in high school or, a man without man boobs to consider. If they can accommodate fat people with big guts, they can surely start designing booth seats to ensure my boobs are above table height. I am going to start asking for a booster seat to raise my nipples above table level.