In January, I took up rock climbing.
If you know me personally, this is just as much a surprise to myself as it may be to you. For one, I have a deep fear of heights. Just ask my friend who had to ride a ski lift with me last fall. Precariously dangling my legs fifty feet above a mountain slope offers me the always-welcome thrill of a panic attack.
Secondly, I have the upper body strength of a boiled gluten-free noodle. I’m told that correct climbing actually involves more leg strength than arms, but tell my aching arms that after a climbing session—the ache lasts for days. I also don’t claim to be climbing correctly, but cut this novice indoor rock climbing girl some slack, plz and thx.
While I have no plans to scale El Capitan, I somehow find myself with a climbing gym membership to my name.
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