Or so they say would happen if I just keep trying.

When my sister and her boyfriend invited the Duck to go rock climbing yesterday it wasn’t a work out she was looking for. Even when they told her brilliant-ness that it was a free fall place, no spotters with ropes that wouldn’t be able to carry your weight anyway, she still didn’t get it.

So in we walked, my sister and I, the only pair with jeans (shorts at least), waiting to take on the world. Even her boyfriend had a pair of unconventional sweat pants he had just purchased that day.

I could only take humor afterwards that it came out covered in white chalk. Charming against the black.

Otherwise, it was a room full of gymnasts and workout people plastering themselves all over the walls and flying off it. Before we obtained our relative freedom and join in the frolicking folly, we all had to do test jumps for an employee. While the idea behind it was to purposefully jump face forwards with your arms forward in front of you like a sumo, the Duck had a habit of squatting into herself, with her arms splayed beside her making a big splat noise. Announcing my arrival a little too late for any unlucky passerby underneath my cherub arse.

The instructor later concluded that our limit was half way up the wall. It didn’t prove as much of a problem as any ‘problems’, as they referred to color coordinated rocks and their difficulties, we tried to ungracefully hinge ourselves onto were ever achieved any higher than the standard half way point.

Boy, did I hate the almost emaciated Asian female gracefully swinging her body and leg this way and that. Attempting problems such as triangular shaped rocks jutting out with no apparent ways of gripping and contorting herself this way and that to fit the course. The last insult was that she hung from a boulder shaped rock wall. Not even your standard up vertical. It just seems so easy.

It took all of five minutes for us to concur that our arms were tired.

But the Duck was quite determined to reach one top of a ‘problem’. And aside from the pink pokadots one that didn’t even have a registered difficulty scale, special as they’d like to make beginners feel, the doomed trio set about to try out anything labelled one step above it.

Sure we found some, but they made easy a farce. The only easy part of it was its grip, which somehow found themselves twisted side ways, no doubt the work of a hap hazardous new worker. Some, were just plain colored molten rock. No grips whatsoever, unless you counted the pathetic way my sister and I groped with it with our fingers as a mean to carry our body weight. They were clearly screwing with us.

Then we realized that we were missing something crucial. – Chalk powder.

Of course none of the problems were solvable with our now sticky germ infected hands. We needed to look like professionals to be professionals right?

The chalk, which costed 3 bucks, did something.

It made us feel like we could pass off as maxed out rock climbers consistently sitting in the middle of the mat. Don’t worry, we were already sweating just from the atmosphere.

Alas, our hearts were settled onto a scale of red rocks mixed among others that was labeled as only difficulty level 1. Otherwise recognized officially as 1 light year of difficulties. In the process of going up, it was actually rather easy. There were reasonable grips, facing upwards for the least, and even handles that jutted outwards. The Duck was finally regaining some of her masculine femininity until she reached the last 3 ‘problems.’

Each time she got to the crucial point it felt the energy she had used to get up there in the first place finally caught up to her non existent arms. It didn’t even stop her from the slight fear of looking behind you to check the coast clear and falling to cling on any longer.

Splat. 

After a few rounds, and by that I mean my sister and I both tried out once, we settled ourselves watching other people attempt insane combinations.

I began to hate tall people.

I watched as a woman who didn’t seem so terribly large while crouching innocently beside her friend got up and took about 8 steps to reach the top. She quite literally sprung up and ended her trial after 3/4 of actual body contortion.

Continuing our watchful eyes, I began to hate skinny people too.

Seeing a thin, very thin, 6’2 young man slowly find his way upwards a convex wall, my poor chocolate filled cholesterol heart actually felt the fear for him as he had hung briefly from the very top, dangling really, and yet somehow found steps for his feet to methodically return to the ground.

Impossible.

So what really happened after the 3 and a half hours we spent there? Did the Duck reach the top?

This is what evil looks like.
This is what evil looks like.

No. 

I really wished I did, but each time after getting to that last rock, my duck wings were hopeless. I couldn’t even feel them as a I fluttered down and went splat. To which I howled and caught the attention of that half of the room.

At least I made a splash right.

So this morning I woke up after 11 hours of slumber, and for once I can actually feel the muscle in my arm. And by muscle I mean the fundamental parts one needs to move a body. They’re shrieking.