“Don’t be such a pussy” he says.
“Why not? My pussy is what you like best about me.” She strikes a Beyonce pose, and they both laugh.
Clive is the fourth guy she’s dated since her divorce. The other three lasted a few months at most, but Clive has the laid-back attitude and dark hair she favors. She loves his swimmer’s body, lithe muscles flowing like currents down a stream with no inconvenient outcroppings.
She’s never been fond of one-night stands, but there were a couple of those, too. She and her girlfriend had an understanding the other girl would disappear if a promising guy showed up at the bar. She knew it wasn’t a good idea, but after three margaritas, shit happened. The following morning when the guy took off, she never knew if she were sad or relieved.
Right now, the main problem with Clive is his age. He’s 28 and doesn’t realize she has a good eight years on him. She lied on her dating app, and no one has questioned it so far. She knows she looks good for 36. Nothing is drooping, and lasers are handling the fine lines. Still, it’s just four trips around the sun until she reaches 40 with no husband, kids, or even a sybaritic cat to keep her company.
And now, for their 6-month anniversary, Clive wants to go cliff camping in Estes Park, CO. She’s seen photos – people sleeping on a cot off a sheer cliff, 300 feet up. Just looking at the images makes her want to throw up. She can’t believe Cliff wants her…to sleep…suspended…from a cliff edge…on a friggin army cot.
“It’s not a cot; it’s a portaledge,” he explains. “It’s super high-tech, and you are tied in with both a harness and a rope. All you have to do is climb down to the platform and watch the sunset. The guide will even lower dinner and breakfast down to you by rope. You’ll never eat a taco in a more fantastic place. Come on. It’s to celebrate our anniversary!”
She pictures her corpse lying at the bottom of the crevice, her limbs broken and battered, and thinks not only no, but hell no.
One month later, she and Clive are listening to a quick orientation before a 30-minute hike to base camp. “It’s less intimidating when you don’t look down,” their guide, Joe, explains.
“Duh,” she thinks”
Joe hikes and rappels several times as he sets everything up. She wonders what Joe’s girlfriend is like assuming any woman would put up with a boyfriend who sleeps on a frigging cot hanging off the edge of a cliff.
Finally, the three begin ascending, scrambling over boulders and past evergreens. As the rock becomes more vertical, they rope in and continue to climb. Within an hour, they are at the top.
She thinks, “This isn’t so bad,” as she starts to repel down to the portaledge, “a piece of cake. I’ve got this!” - until she looks down and panics.
She jumps on the ledge and attempts to hook herself to a different rope. The portaledge sways back and forth and side to side. “I am going to kill Clive,” she thinks. “Cut off his balls and throw them right off this damn swinging army cot.”
The ledge finally quits swinging, and she sits there, not moving. Joe and Clive are still at the top. She tries not to wet her pants. There’s no barrier preventing her from falling off and the rope gives her little or no comfort.
Clive finally makes it down, and they sit for an hour before removing their helmets. Neither says a word.
After finally calming down, she looks out at the view - neon-green lichen on a dark grey cliff face - views of Jurassic Park and Mummy Range. It’s breathtaking! Two falcons fly by. “They probably want to know if we are dinner,” she thinks.
Joe delivers their meal via a basket, and she’s surprised to find she’s hungry. As the sun sets, she and Clive feed each other pieces of chocolate cake.
“I’ve never had anyone fall off the ledge,” Joe said. “I’ve heard about couples getting too enthusiastic and causing the ledge to flip, but I’ve never had anyone just roll off."
She silently wills Clive to keep his distance. After drifting into an uneasy sleep, she dreams of being on the Titanic, icebergs crashing into the ship’s bow.
In the morning, the sunrise awakens her with its boldness. She and Clive eat breakfast, courtesy of Joe and his cook stove, which dangles from the cliff. The falcons do another flyby.
She discovers her legs no longer want to work on the way down. Since yesterday, they have only been sitting or sleeping on the portaledge. She slowly stands, and the platform dips. She screams, grabs the rope, and begins to rappel. Clive follows behind, laughing hysterically.
When they finally reach the ground, she sits for a few minutes, breathing hard and rubbing a blister on the bottom of her foot.
On the car ride home, she mentally composes an inscription for her tombstone. “Here lies a 36-year-old woman. At least she wasn’t a pussy.” She decides to share it with Clive, age and all. After all, it couldn’t be any worse than jumping off a cliff.
— opelikakat
“Why not? My pussy is what you like best about me.” She strikes a Beyonce pose, and they both laugh.
Clive is the fourth guy she’s dated since her divorce. The other three lasted a few months at most, but Clive has the laid-back attitude and dark hair she favors. She loves his swimmer’s body, lithe muscles flowing like currents down a stream with no inconvenient outcroppings.
She’s never been fond of one-night stands, but there were a couple of those, too. She and her girlfriend had an understanding the other girl would disappear if a promising guy showed up at the bar. She knew it wasn’t a good idea, but after three margaritas, shit happened. The following morning when the guy took off, she never knew if she were sad or relieved.
Right now, the main problem with Clive is his age. He’s 28 and doesn’t realize she has a good eight years on him. She lied on her dating app, and no one has questioned it so far. She knows she looks good for 36. Nothing is drooping, and lasers are handling the fine lines. Still, it’s just four trips around the sun until she reaches 40 with no husband, kids, or even a sybaritic cat to keep her company.
And now, for their 6-month anniversary, Clive wants to go cliff camping in Estes Park, CO. She’s seen photos – people sleeping on a cot off a sheer cliff, 300 feet up. Just looking at the images makes her want to throw up. She can’t believe Cliff wants her…to sleep…suspended…from a cliff edge…on a friggin army cot.
“It’s not a cot; it’s a portaledge,” he explains. “It’s super high-tech, and you are tied in with both a harness and a rope. All you have to do is climb down to the platform and watch the sunset. The guide will even lower dinner and breakfast down to you by rope. You’ll never eat a taco in a more fantastic place. Come on. It’s to celebrate our anniversary!”
She pictures her corpse lying at the bottom of the crevice, her limbs broken and battered, and thinks not only no, but hell no.
One month later, she and Clive are listening to a quick orientation before a 30-minute hike to base camp. “It’s less intimidating when you don’t look down,” their guide, Joe, explains.
“Duh,” she thinks”
Joe hikes and rappels several times as he sets everything up. She wonders what Joe’s girlfriend is like assuming any woman would put up with a boyfriend who sleeps on a frigging cot hanging off the edge of a cliff.
Finally, the three begin ascending, scrambling over boulders and past evergreens. As the rock becomes more vertical, they rope in and continue to climb. Within an hour, they are at the top.
She thinks, “This isn’t so bad,” as she starts to repel down to the portaledge, “a piece of cake. I’ve got this!” - until she looks down and panics.
She jumps on the ledge and attempts to hook herself to a different rope. The portaledge sways back and forth and side to side. “I am going to kill Clive,” she thinks. “Cut off his balls and throw them right off this damn swinging army cot.”
The ledge finally quits swinging, and she sits there, not moving. Joe and Clive are still at the top. She tries not to wet her pants. There’s no barrier preventing her from falling off and the rope gives her little or no comfort.
Clive finally makes it down, and they sit for an hour before removing their helmets. Neither says a word.
After finally calming down, she looks out at the view - neon-green lichen on a dark grey cliff face - views of Jurassic Park and Mummy Range. It’s breathtaking! Two falcons fly by. “They probably want to know if we are dinner,” she thinks.
Joe delivers their meal via a basket, and she’s surprised to find she’s hungry. As the sun sets, she and Clive feed each other pieces of chocolate cake.
“I’ve never had anyone fall off the ledge,” Joe said. “I’ve heard about couples getting too enthusiastic and causing the ledge to flip, but I’ve never had anyone just roll off."
She silently wills Clive to keep his distance. After drifting into an uneasy sleep, she dreams of being on the Titanic, icebergs crashing into the ship’s bow.
In the morning, the sunrise awakens her with its boldness. She and Clive eat breakfast, courtesy of Joe and his cook stove, which dangles from the cliff. The falcons do another flyby.
She discovers her legs no longer want to work on the way down. Since yesterday, they have only been sitting or sleeping on the portaledge. She slowly stands, and the platform dips. She screams, grabs the rope, and begins to rappel. Clive follows behind, laughing hysterically.
When they finally reach the ground, she sits for a few minutes, breathing hard and rubbing a blister on the bottom of her foot.
On the car ride home, she mentally composes an inscription for her tombstone. “Here lies a 36-year-old woman. At least she wasn’t a pussy.” She decides to share it with Clive, age and all. After all, it couldn’t be any worse than jumping off a cliff.
— opelikakat
This is cute. I mean it. Charming. A bit scary, but charming. ---Macoff
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