Climbing is life?

I went climbing tonight. Eric and I have been trying to go every Sunday, just to keep ourselves active and for the last couple of weeks we've been pretty successful at going consistantly. We never really go for very long, since we both get off of work at five and the gym closes at eight, but we can usually get a nice bit of climbing in.
Sometimes, climbing feels great. I get off of the wall, and even if I don't finish a route, it feels good to just get up there and do it. Even when climbing doesn't feel great, its usually at least a good time. But every once in a while, there's a night when everything just feels like shit and tonight was one of those nights. Everything was off. My feet were wrong, my arms were weak and I wouldn't have been able to hang on to a monkey's ass if it had stretched it out and defecated on me. Horrible.
But that's sort of how life has been going lately. Sometimes, its wonderful. I know where I'm going and how to get there. And even when its not great, its at least not horrible. But more and more often, it feels like shit, like I don't quite know what to do with myself. Unsure of what I really want and if I'm doing what I need to get there.
With climbing, I can just take off my shoes and harness, walk away from the wall and wait till next time, when surely it'll be better. But you can't do that in real life. Still, things have to get better, right?

The Second Century

Last night I did one of the most foolish things think I've ever done. I participated in my second Century Club. For those of you unfamiliar with this prestigious group, a Century Club is drinking 100 shots of beer in 100 minutes. Foolish, yes? I think so. But I've never had a huge problem with foolishness, especially when I think it will be fun foolishness. What I thought would be merely foolish turned into one of the most painful nights in my recent memory.

As I said, this was my second Century Club. The first was in Flagstaff at the House. That was a night of miracles. I, the notorious light-weight, whom Andy once dubbed "a cheap date," whom everyone was sure could only make it to the early twenties, was the last to vomit. PJ, who swears vodka keeps him healthy, was first. It was as if the gods smiled upon my endeavor, lending me the strength to not only finish the Century Club, but also the rest of the keg. And when I did finally vomit, it was Renee, of all people, Renee who hated me like a cat hates mayonnaise, Renee who sat by me and comforted me while we bonded over a mutual romance interest. Truly, a night of miracles.

Last night was a night of horrors. The gods had forsaken me. I began strongly, keeping pace with Kyle and Sam, only slightly more drunk than Karyssa. But as the night went on and the shots tallied, the room became a blur, voices became a swirling din around me and my urge to vomit could not be denied. I made it to 89. 89 ounces of beer in roughly an hour and a half. Everyone thought I was done once I puked. But I rallied. Foolish, yes, but never a quitter. I came back to the table, downed the two shots I had missed, and finished with the rest. I scorned the gods who had left me with only 11 shots to go. I laughed in their faces and, in typical omnipotent fashion, they made me pay. By the time I had finished the remaining shots, I could hardly walk. Kyle calculated my blood alcohol content to be roughly .20. Eric led me to the car, buckled me in and took me home. We had to stop twice on the way home so I could puke. When I got home, I spent two hours paying for my defiance. Two hours, sprawled in front of the toilet, Eric behind me with toilet paper and a glass of water. Two hours of shaking and shivering on the bathroom floor before Eric half picked me up and took me to bed.

Surprisingly I was fine at work the next day. I didn't have a heinous hangover, but I felt tired and sluggish, and I had a tender spot on my chest where I had hit the toilet so many times.

I will not be so foolish again any time soon.