Day 23: Never have I ever... attended the St. Patrick's Day parade

It's St. Patrick's Day! I'm Irish and unemployed... Parade here I come!

Marching Band

I've never done the St. Patty's Day thing in NYC. I have been in Chicago when they turn the river green, and that is pretty cool. But, I'm generally not into huge mob-crowds. They're oppressive, annoying, and potentially dangerous. But I decided that I'd probably be OK if I got to the parade by noon. How drunk could people be by noon? 

Flag bearers

The answer: Very drunk. People were shoving and pushing, and I felt like cattle being herded onto the slaughterhouse truck. I nearly stepped in puke. And there were more stupid outfits than Halloween at a frat house. Felt leprechaun hats, bouncy shamrock headbands, spray-painted green hair, even green tulle tutus. Everyone was decked out, I was practically blinded by all the reflective green sparkles. 

The un-stupid outfits were all IN the parade. I have to say, the parade itself is really cool. Huge bands with elaborate outfits, bagpipers with kilts, Irish dancers in gorgeous dresses, color guard and flag bearers in uniform. It was festive, indeed. Though it was very difficult to see over the throngs of people. I can only imagine that the people along the front barricades had been there since 8am. You gotta really LOVE St. Patrick's Day to do that. 

All in all, watching the parade on a beautiful, sunny March day with a cold Guinness in a cop-friendly thermos was a lovely treat. This is something that I would never ever take the time to do in regular life, but I'm so glad that this project afforded me the chance to do it. 

A wall of American Flags

Though I probably won't do it again. Because with rare exception, these are the main crowd demographics at the St. Patrick's Day parade: 

1. International Tourists
2. Teenagers
3. Bridge and Tunnel Assholes 
(And to clarify, I'm not saying all B&T'ers are assholes...)

Grand Central Station. Mid-day.

Walking down to the subway, every bar was packed. I picked up the 4 train from Grand Central, and I have never seen it so crowded in the middle of the day. It looked like 8:45 a.m. on a Monday morning. Except a really weird Monday, where everyone is wearing green and falling down the staircase. 

Results: I came. I saw. It was fun. I went home before things really got ugly. 

Status: Slàinte! 

Day 19: Never have I ever... explored DUMBO art

Ever notice how easy it is to ignore your local best? The cool attractions directly in our line of sight often just blend into our daily routines. I think this is particularly true for New Yorkers. I always hear of cool events, and think "yeah, sure, i'll go to that thing next weekend." But come next weekend, a friend is in town or I need to do laundry or I'm tired or it's raining or I want to go to brunch instead, and I let another cool experience slip away. And a new experience that would have required minimal effort! Yet I'll block out a Saturday weeks in advance and drive 2.5 hours outside of the city to go to a garlic festival and try 37 varieties of garlic spread, because that takes planning. 

This could not be more true for my next-door-neighborhood: DUMBO. (Note to non-New Yorkers: DUMBO, which stands for Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass is a historic industrial-chic neighborhood in Brooklyn now dubbed NYC's creative capital due to the fact that more artists live or work here, per capita, than anywhere else in the city.) It's just a 7 minute walk from where I live. And it's arguably one of NYC's coolest neighborhoods. And it constantly offers me exposure to cool art and music and culture, and yet I constantly ignore DUMBO. Sure, I've checked out the artsy shops on my lunch hour. But this 8 block radius is teeming with galleries, events, and funky fun. And yet I never walk the 7 minutes down the hill to check it out. 

So when I heard about a new art fair being held in DUMBO this past weekend, I didn't want to let another experience slip away. The event was called Verge: Art Brooklyn. I headed down on Friday early evening and checked it out. 

The streets were bustling only a little more than a typical Friday night in DUMBO. I popped into a gallery in a big lofty office space. There were two long hallways full of exhibiting artists. Photography, painting, sculpture, multimedia... it was a mixed bag. The coolest, in my opinion, was a an artist who creates huge black and white ink pieces so intricate that the viewer needs a magnifying glass to see the whimsical details. He displayed the pieces inside a dark, screened-in cavern, using a moving projection of his work as the only light source. I would have considered buying one, if not for the $1,800 price tags. The oddest exhibition was a live installation piece: The female artist would dress in three different outfits at various points in the evening, with the other two outfits hanging in the background. I asked her about her inspiration and she said that her piece is about identity formation; how our clothes tell the world what our intentions are. It was an interesting take on a somewhat-obvious concept. 

One of my faves: A collage piece called "Teardrop"

Next stop: A giant bookstore-cum-art gallery that served complimentary wine. Jackpot! I had a glass of surprisingly good white wine and browsed the artwork and books. This was the most lively venue thus far (I'm sure that had nothing to do with the gratis wine bar.) The patrons seemed like an interesting bunch. I wanted to strike up a conversation to test the theory of the exhibit I had just seen: Their appearance was telling me "here are some interesting, smart, artistically-minded individuals"... one conversation might confirm their visage. But the thing about this crowd... they were not exactly approachable. So I sipped my wine and mingled with the interesting and very approachable books. 


Next I went down the street to the DUMBO Art Center. There was an artist doing a live diamond-dust work on the floor, which was really neat to watch. I loved a gripping photography exhibit called Tent Life (photos of Haitian post-earthquake living conditions), and did not love the over-sexualized gallery with the melted, mutilated and bloodied silicon mannequin in a lace dress and wig. Just another modern art exhibit. 

A rainbow of miniature human heads.

My last stop of the night. Right away... more free booze! There was a sparse Welcome Table of seemingly unchilled and uninteresting beers. Heineken, Becks, Bud. Ick city. Hello, aren't artsy people supposed to have good taste? But then I thought, wait a sec...free beer!! Who was I kidding, the college kid inside me was elated. The exhibitions here were lovely, and I met an older French painter who reminded me of my artist grandmother. She had come all the way from Paris for this show; I thought about how much my grandmother would enjoy speaking this fellow artist. I really would have liked to post a photo of one of her pieces, but she (understandably) preferred that I didn't photograph them. It was a bittersweet note on which to end my excursion, but my two free drinkies were taking the edge off of my contemplative zone. 

There was also a free party just getting into swing at the Galapogos Art Space, which is one of my favorite venues in NYC. But I had friends coming into town and had to get back up the hill to meet them... 

Results: Free art exhibits+Free booze? Pinch me! It was a lovely half-evening in a lovely neighborhood. I only wished my friends were arriving earlier, as it would have been a perfect excursion for out-of-town guests. Why have I not done this before?!?! 

Status: Success! 

Day 17: Never have I ever... crashed a black tie gala

I live a reasonable life in a fabulous city. I am not the woman with the perfect, shiny hair laughing over a glass of white Bordeaux in a sleek SoHo restaurant. I don't frequent establishments with velvet ropes of any sort. Though I am a fan of establishments with other sorts of ropes, like climbing or nautical. And my black-tie gala experience is mostly comprised of some lovely events I've worked on.  (I usually attend these events sweaty and frenzied, having changed into my gown in a hotel bathroom stall while simultaneously shimmying my pantyhose on and shoving a piece of pizza in my mouth.) Glamour. 

But the fabulosity of New York City is an intriguing environment to inhabit. Some days I love it. Some days I hate it. Sometimes I'm envious. Sometimes I get exhausted just looking at the fabulous people leading fabulous lives because, Dear Lord, I just couldn't look that fabulous all the time without the help of a daily blow-out, manicure, make-up artist, and personal stylist. And a therapist to help me with my impending identity crisis.

Party-crashing has reached epic proportions in recent-ish media. How hard is it to be faux-fabulous for a day? I dared myself to crash an honest-to-goodness black-tie gala as an imperceptible interloper. Haven't we all wondered if we have a little Gatsby in us? 

Pre-crash mirror-shot

This task required buddy. I knew exactly who would be up for this silly and somewhat daring challenge: my pal Beth, the ultimate performer. She agreed to be my wingwoman without hesitation. Hesitation is the enemy. 

The plan was to pick a gala, dress to impress, and then brush right by the registration area while speaking French to each other. (I didn't say it was a good plan.) Beth speaks French fluently and impeccably, and I planned to say the minimum number of French words required to feign a normal conversation. If approached, act confused and attempt to explain that we were searching for a party, in broken English, of course. Should we get nabbed, we figured that flat-out lying was a no-no and could land us in hot water. But friendly, lost French ladies? Innocuous! 

For Plan A, we picked a Mother of a gala: The Director's Council Winterball for the Museum of the City of New York. Held at none other than The Plaza Hotel. Attendance by invitation only. $3,500 per ticket. Yikes bikes. For Plan B, we picked the 100 Black Men Gala at the Hilton New York. Mainly because I've done several events in that hotel, spent literally hundreds of hours inside of it, and know the Ballroom names, floorplans, and square footage by heart. Plus, the security is a joke, and I know it. 

@ the Plaza, longingly peering in

We learned that the Winterball began at 6:30 pm, so we arrived around 7:45, hair did and dolled up. The Plaza was crawling with hotel staff, men in penguin suits, and ladies in floor- sweeping sparkle gowns. Confidently, we nodded at the hotel greeters and breezed right through the giant floral arrangement in the lobby. Straight ahead there was a set of glass doors and a small line formed in its opening. Beth concentrated on our faux French dialogue while I scoped out the situation. We followed the other guests and stood in line with them for a hot second, until I craned my neck around the huge blond head in front of me and saw a firing squad of a registration table.  Then I was blinded by the flash of hired paparazzi-like photographers. Crap. This wasn't going to work; there was no way to get past these doors. Abort mission! I motioned to Beth that we should step out of line, which we did. From there, we worked our way around the outside of the windowed ballroom for a clear view inside. The set-up was intense. Once past the registration table, every guest was then funneled into a receiving line, where two photographers took photos of every...single...guest. We slipped out the side door. 

Next, we headed over to the 100 Black Men Gala at the Hilton. Into the lobby, up to floor 4 where the ballroom balcony would likely be empty. Bingo. We walked right in and peered down over the edge at the hundreds of guests below. There were several empty seats, and it would have been a piece of cake to go from the balcony to the ballroom. But, we arrived just as Mayor Bloomberg was speaking about the night's award recipients. There were several men standing in line, waiting for their moment of glory. And they would all have speeches. Long speeches. We were already a little buzzkilled from the Plaza ordeal, so we decided to leave during the dinner portion of the gala (which we didn't feel right about crashing, anyway), and return for the after-party. Having checked out the after-party room, it was enticing. A big dance floor, two large bars, and a huge stage with a 8-piece band set-up. 

When we returned a few hours later, we waltzed right into the after-party. La-dee-da. Unfortunately, we came back a bit too late. The band was still going strong, but the dance floor now held only a few stragglers. The surrounding cocktail tables were still populated by event guests conversing and enjoying the band, and so we sat down at an empty table. The bars was open (hooray!), so yes, we did order a glass of wine, and no, we weren't charged. Oh, this is the whole crashing part. It felt wrong and exciting. Weeee! 

The party featured a fantasic jazz rock band. The lead was a Grammy-winning (and gorgeous) female soul artist named Maya Azucena. She was joined by a voluptuous secondary vocalist named Honey, a rapping keyboardist, an androgynous saxophonist, and a groovy lady bassist. The band alone made the night worth it. We toasted with our free glasses of wine and soaked in the great music, fashionable guests, and all around fabulousness of the dwindling party. 

Results: Plan A went bust; the Plan B for Plan B did work, technically. With a little confidence and dressing the part, we did go to a black-tie gala for which we weren't invited guests. It wasn't quite our epic vision of mingling and dancing the night away, but we didn't get arrested or held in hotel jail (yes, they have one), and that's a win.  

Status: Mild Success? Primary Fail? You decide. 

Day 14: Never have I ever... tried to knit

Knitting has always seemed like the kind of repetitive, mechanical craft that I'd be good at. I've always wanted to try it, despite missing the hipster knitting craze of the mid 00's. So I looked up knitting classes in Brooklyn, and found one that was free (free!) from 5-7 PM on Saturdays. Most others are upwards of $100, which was out of my blog project price range, so despite the undesirable timeframe, I decided to give this one whirl. Enlisting a knitting buddy in my friend Beth, we set off for the Brooklyn Yarn Cafe. 

First of all, the journey to the store was an adventure in itself, through some of Brooklyn's neighborhoods least likely to ever make it to New York mag's annual liveable list. The main drag was sparsely populated and bleak. Having had my car broken into two years ago mere blocks from this location, I was extremely wary of leaving my Golden Girl on the street. But luckily, we found a spot right outside the yarn store, and I had to admit... it did look like an adorable shop with it's bright window painting of yarn and cupcakes. It was a warm and inviting oasis in the middle of a sparse, gray, run-down area.  

Enthusiastic beginnings

Miss Rosemary, the proprietor and teacher, greeted us. Her business was eclectic, to say the least: café/yarn shop/laundry service. It took me a while to catch on to that last part. I couldn't understand why people (mostly men) kept coming in with large, bulky bags... until I eavesdropped on an interaction between Miss Rosemary and a mystery customer. I guess peddling yarn isn't the most profitable endeavor, and Rosie seemed like the resourceful type. A girl's gotta pay the bills! 

We waited for a long time in the "back room" with a Guy Friday-type employee named Al. He was a young guy from Tennessee with a molasses-thick accent and black newsboy cap. We endured his random dissertation about the nuances of Tennessee county politics with a smile, but when we asked if he knit and his reply was "I'd love to, but where I'm staying doesn't allow me to keep needles," well, that's when things started to get weird. Would this class start already? Finally, Miss Rosemary came in to help us pick out some yarn and announced the class would be starting in the front room. I looked at my watch, she was starting 45 minutes late. But, hey, it's hard to complain about a free class, right?

Yarn Disaster

Right away, I could tell Miss Rosemary was a thorough teacher. She first taught us about "casting-on", or starting the yarn on the needle, which was a skill I picked up right away. This was easy! I would have this baby blanket done in no time! But no, she had a system. She made both Beth and I do and undo our stitches 4 times, to ensure we had the skill mastered. After about 45 minutes of this tedium, we moved on to the actual knitting. This is where it all fell apart for me. My smug mastery of casting-on meant nothing now. I fumbled with the needles and simply could not visualize the stitch. Finalllllly, I finished the first row after about 45 more minutes. Something looked weird. When I got to the second row, it became clear that my work was beyond repair. It was a tangled mess of pink and blue fuzz. Miss Rosemary took one look, and promptly ripped the whole knot off the needle. All of my hours of fine motor skill down the drain. MY MASTERPIECE!?!?! 

I doggedly started again, but had less patience this time. It was 8:15, and I was getting hungry. Now, it's important to mention that the knitting class was also attended by four interesting and friendly ladies. Their intimate tone made both Beth and I assume that they were a group of friends. Turns out, they met last weekend at the shop, and had come back for another stitch n' bitch sesh. They welcomed us right into their group, allowing us to truly understand the concept of a knitting circle. There was something profoundly connective (and quite relaxing) about rocking back and forth, as our fingers worked away, our mouths laughing and chatting, our eyes micro-focused. Who cares that it was a Saturday night, and most of NYC was getting dressed in their best for a hot night on the town. We were knitting ladies. 

But we were also hungry ladies. Bob (female), a spunky and spritely massage therapist who lived in the apartments above the shop, was very enthusiastic about a group dinner. It's uncommon to meet random, new friends and head out for dinner within a few hours of making the acquaintance, but hey, what did we have to lose? Bob's husband Lez joined in to complete our eclectic group. So the ladies-plus-Lez packed up our projects, paid for our yarn, thanked Miss Rosemary, and went to a nearby Japanese restaurant owned by Bob and Lez's friend. 

Sushi "Bombs"

It was the kind of secret place you have to know to find. It blended into this mostly industrial neighborhood seamlessly. There was no sign. No sound from the street. But once the massive, wooden door opened, we stepped inside an intimate and aromatic secret sanctuary. Long wooden tables filled with the hipster glam. A funky music mix of Duran Duran b-sides, Dr. Dre, and Fela Kuti. And a totally bare, minimalist asian design of the small space. The friendly owner, Phil, greeted our new friends with hugs and kisses, and showed our group inside. He asked us how much we wanted to pay per person, and announced he would do all the ordering for us. $25? Ok. Any food allergies or aversions? Nope. Great. Sit back and enjoy. 

Pork Perfection

With minutes, the courses began to arrive, one after the other. Salad with fresh miso dressing (made six times nightly for optimal flavor), braised lotus fruit, pickled japanese vegetables, perfectly crunchy vegetable tempura, three plates of "sushi bombs", crispy dumplings, and the pièce de résistance: a ring of pork belly slivers with crème fraiche in a salty, bacon-y broth that we sopped up with sticky rice. Did I mention the potpourri of freshly made sauces and purees with interesting ingredients like yuzu and 6-hour soaked chiles? This meal was thebomb.com, and was only $25 a head?! We were getting hooked up. Look at all these other suckers in here. They have to look at the menu. Order food? We just chatted with our new friends as plate after plate of deliciousness was presented to us in bountiful quantity. We felt special. Phil was treating us like old friends rather than new customers. It was delightful.  

As I parked my car in my neighborhood at midnight, hours after my anticipated 8PM homecoming, I couldn't help but think "This is exactly why I'm doing this blog experiment." Openness to new experiences can lead to the most unexpected adventures.... 

Results: I sucked at knitting, but I intend to keep trying. It just takes practice, I'm sure I'll get it down eventually. However, the social aspect of this classic American craft* led us to make some unique, new friends and share a very special meal. It's a night I won't soon forget. 

Status: Craft FAIL; Life SUCCESS! 

*Knitting's origins date back as early 300 AD with Romano-Egyptian socks, but the knitting circle is an iconic American symbol of domesticity and female community. 

Day 12: Never have I ever... seen a Sexhibition

Today I went to one of NYC's finest cultural institutions. Forget MoMA. Guggenheim-Schmoogenheim.  If you're seeking curatorial genius, look no further than 233 Fifth Avenue: The Museum of Sex. The gift shop says it all with Pink Sock Tissue dispensers. His and hers! 

Actually, I've been wanting to check out this museum for a while. I've passed by it dozens of times. But it always seemed like a strange activity to suggest. Hey guys, after brunch you want to hit up the Sex Museum? Lucky for me, my chosen day of attendance was a very special day at the Museum of Sex, or MoSex, as they've dubbed it (creative...). It was a calendar signing for New York City Hunky Firefighters of the Month. 12 of NYC's bravest and a sad turnout of even sadder women in large, giggling gaggles. It really added to the ambiance. 

The first question asked by a friend about the Museum of Sex, is "how porn-ey will it be?" The answer? VERY PORN-EY. The curators don't care about easing the visitor into the experience. First piece in the first exhibit... bam! Hard core porn. The entire first-floor exhibition chronicled the depiction of sex in film. I was shocked and humored to see the earlier works, some of which were quite graphic. There was also a section about sex in modern movies. N-O-T for the faint of heart. I felt remarkably uncomfortable watching the famous 9 1/2 weeks bathtub scene in a public setting. That's the weird dichotomy of MoSex. The carnal content sparks the most intimate of thoughts, but it's set in the sterile, analytical environment of a museum. And is there anything analytical about sex? 

The second floor was dedicated to a strange, disjointed mix of media: the depiction of sex in art, photography, sculpture, and thennnn... some sex toys you could touch. There was The Sex of Robots, a super-disturbing tiny metal model of a robot orgy, with a child doing things a child shouldn't be doing. Yikes. In a less freaky corner, there were some cool old pornographic photos. It was most interesting to see the sepia-toned Victorian-era photographs with poses that resemble the raunchiest porn photos from today. It reminds us that no matter how much our culture shifts, and no matter what inappropriate television show MTV has created this year, people have been knockin' boots since the beginning of time. Since before boots! So what's with the big taboo? 

The third floor was the most interesting. It was a special exhibition on the sex lives of animals. Mostly photos and lots of text, it focused a lot on nature's sexual anomalies: gender-bending animals, female penises, male mammaries, sex-role reversal and more. From homosexuality to gender, masturbation to monogamy (or lack thereof), the exhibition looked at animal sexual behaviors that humans have classified as deviant. Acts that we've outlawed, punished, and shamed, animals don't give a shit. And who's usually right... man or Mother Nature? It was cool to see that animal sexuality is every bit as weird and complicated as human sexuality. So next time you go to spank the monkey, you can feel better knowing that right now, a monkey is doing the exact same thing. 

Results:  Learned a lot of fun factoids about the animal kingdom, saw some weird, old porn, and checked an oft-overlooked NYC museum off my list. Uninhibited museum-goers will appreciate an intense look at the chronology of human sexuality in culture. It wasn't the most impressive museum in the city, but no one could ever accuse it of being boring. Oh, and definitely don't bring your mom. 

Status: Sexcess! 

Day 2: Never have I ever... Bouldered.

I've heard Boulder is a lovely city. Legend has it that it's the jewel of the Rockies: a postcard-worthy town against snow-capped mountains, packed with shaggy-haired folks who bathe infrequently.... an irresistible trifecta! Luckily for likeminded New Yorkers, there is a headquarters for this type within city limits. Brooklyn Boulders, abbreviated BKB for those in the know. (I'm not in the know.) 

I've wanted to try out BKB since it opened last year, and I even had a $5 off coupon sitting in my desk. But it wasn't until my friend Ethan provided me with the impetus to go that I finally made it through the door. And by impetus, I should say awkward self-invitation. You see, we were at his birthday party discussing a good date to meet up with some friends. The interaction went something like this:
Me: So, are you free this Monday, the 31st? 
Ethan: Ah, I can't, I'm going rock-climbing with my friend Chris on Monday. (points to Chris a few feet away) 
Me: Ooooh! Rock climbing!! Where are you guys going?! In the city?? 
Ethan: (calling to Chris) We're going to Brooklyn, right? 
Chris: Yep. 
Me: Ooooh! Brooklyn Boulders!? I've heard that place is great!  I've been meaning to check it out! 
Ethan: Yeah, well, Chris goes a lot, I think he likes it. 
Me: Really?! That's so cool! Um, could I maybe come with you guys? I mean, would that be OK? I mean, if you guys want to just hang out just the guys, I totally understand, but if I'm not crashing the party then maybe I could come and, yeah, I really like rock climbing, it would be fun, um...
I don't need to keep going, do I? You get the idea. Ethan graciously encouraged me to come, despite my clumsy breach of social protocol. He didn't even make me feel like an overexcited asshole about it. Which I kinda was.

So that's the story of how I ended up at Brooklyn Boulders at 8:30pm on a Monday night.

BKB is the mecca for cool, urban hippie-types. Overlooking the fact that the entire, gi-normous establishment is seasoned with eau de B.O., the vibe of the place is laid-back and non-judgmental. The staff was familiar and competent, and the place was PACKED. Mind you, it was freezing cold Monday night in late January. I can only imagine how crowded it must be on weekends...

I have climbed many times before in my past, so climbing in itself isn't a new experience for me. In college, we had a free climbing gym on campus, and my high school was even lucky enough to have a climbing wall right in our gymnasium. But that was all top-rope climbing. With a harness and taut rope attached to one's pelvis, you have security. Actually, falling is fun. You swing back and forth suspended in air. It's like the circus!

But this bouldering business was new to me. Bouldering, for those who don't know, is a style of climbing without a rope and on lower walls over a crash pad. If you fall, you fall. The walls are only about 15' high, so falling wouldn't kill you, even if you were landing on hard ground. But would you want to jump out of a second story window?

On my first attempt (on a V0, the lowest level), I slipped reaching for the second set of holds. Lame. To add insult to more insult, all of the cool, urban-hippie-types scrambled up the much-tougher nearby walls like it was no big thang. I sheepishly looked back to Ethan and Chris and asked if we could start on a wall that didn't have an inverted angle.

From our newly-selected wall spot, I began to hit a stride. Chris pointed out some good routes for me. I silently instructed myself to chill out and ignore the fear of falling. A few half-successes up the wall later, I felt my beginner skills coming back to me. My moves were by no means pretty, but hey, I was climbing.

Finally, I made it to the top! It was then that I realized how friggin' high this "short" wall was. I looked down, clung to the wall, and hollered "So, guys...what now? I just have to jump?" I was freaked out. Chris told me I could jump, or climb down a bit. I chose the latter, and then jumped to safety on the marshmallowy crash pad below.

Yep, there it was. That same feeling I used to love: the jello-jigglers legs sensation. Like your knees have started yodeling. I'm not sure how else to explain it... but if you know what I mean, you know exactly what I mean.

We played around on the boulders for about two hours. I succeeded on two or three routes, and made valiant attempts at many others, including a "fun one" (as labeled by Chris) where you start clinging to the wall, almost horizontally, and then climb up to a vertical position. I failed miserably. Moments later, the friendly staff member who gave me a free climbing shoe rental came along and Spiderwomaned it.

Ethan and Chris* both did much better than me, but they are muscly boys and I'm just a tiny little woman. I asked the very nimble Chris how long he had been climbing, expecting his response to be in years. Turns out he's only been bouldering twice a week since November. (NOVEMBER?!?) Evidence that regular practice and dedication brings great reward, sometimes even speedily.

Results: A lot of laughs with two fun people, a reinvigorated interest in climbing, and one very sore body today. (My quads and arms are aching!)

Status: Success-ish

*Huge thanks to both for letting me tag along, coaching me up, and pretending that I didn't completely suck at it.