it’s not fucking Everest

I hiked my first 14er this past weekend and, like everything in life, I severely underestimated the undertaking.  To be specific, “it’s not fucking Everest” was my mindset.  But it didn’t take long—about ten feet from the car—for me to realize “it’s not the fucking treadmill” either.  That shit is truly exhausting, although you couldn’t tell by looking at the small children and dogs I passed—sorry, that passed me.

My situation was made significantly worse by the fact that I had to poop the whole time.  I’m not an early-morning-pooper and you have to hit those mountains early, supposedly because it storms in the afternoons, but I think that is just an excuse people use to justify why they didn’t do anything social the night before and are therefore able to get up and be sober before noon the next day.  Anyway, what I didn’t realize about tall mountains is that they are completely devoid of grass, trees, or coverage in general and I wasn’t about to wipe my ass with a rock (or anything else while crouched on the side of a mountain for that matter).  So I did what anyone in my situation would have, and crop-dusted everyone behind me for four hours straight—women and children, included.  Afterward, I drank some beer and ate a Mexican pizza, so you can imagine my discomfort at this stage, and because I’m also a private-pooper, I had to wait until I got home to remedy the situation.  Thankfully I made it home just in time to eat a bowl of chili and rush to a kickboxing class, where I nearly shit my pants with every uppercut.  Obviously a string of shitty decisions (pun intended), aside from the hiking which was an awesome decision executed in an embarrassing manner.

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