There was a U.P.O.S. between two benches of the subway (an unidentified pile of "something") so all the passengers were sitting rather intimately as far away from it as possible, myself included. It would have been kind of romantic, in a polygamist kind of way, had it not been for the fact that the woman beside me had obviously been bathing in french onion soup and brushing her teeth with hummus, and the man beside her thought that pants were optional, and the sexless person beside him was blowing bubbles with his spit and then trying to catch them in a piece of tupperware, and of course, there was the stench of the abandoned pile of probable-vomit. Despite the obvious stinking attraction of this pile, the riders were all looking at me, and I thought, Great, so it's written on my forehead. Everyone knows that I am riding this train toward my death.
So right off the bat, you gotta be thinking: death, vomit, polygamy...this can only mean that Date Night lives again. And you know what? You're right!
Although, for the record, any date spent clinging to a wall instead of a man is not much of a date, in my opinion.
We went rockclimbing. Actually, we went indoor wall climbing, but they paint the wall grey and make it kind of craggly, which doesn't convince you it's a rock, but you're supposed to want to climb it anyway.
I'm not sure why rock climbing is supposed to be fun. I mean, it's hard to get to the top and there's not even a payoff. If they wanted to make rock climbing a more rational, rewarding experience, they'd put a steakhouse on top, or at least one of those vibrating arm chairs where you could rest your aching muscles.
But no. You get to the top, and then they just want you to come down again.
I'm getting ahead of myself here.
We had made reservations at Joe Rockhead's, but in the few days between making the reservation and actually showing up, I had rethunk my position on life, and ending said life after falling head-first to the concrete floor below. I wanted to live.
As a couple of virgin climbers, we had hired a seasoned climbing whore to show us the ropes. But as it turns out, the rope was the least of our worries, because first comes The Harness. The Harness is is the ugliest piece of lingerie you'll ever see, and to make matters worse, you wear it outside your clothes.
"Haha!" I said, pointing to Jason's crotch. "It frames your package!"
"Haha!" he said, pointing to my ass. "It frames your cellulite!"
Just kidding. Jason couldn't tell cellulite from a bowl or raisins. He still thinks they're "cute booty dimples".
Then it was time for our lesson in belaying. Belaying means that one person controls the ropes while the other person dangles from a crevice smaller than half a banana - and between you and me, I wouldn't trust half a banana with my life. And for that matter, I'm not sure I trust Jason's belaying with my life, either. I mean, this is the guy who often washes his right armpit twice and his left not at all. Now, belaying would make me a lot happier if it prevented you from falling, but in fact, it only prevents you from falling to your death, hopefully. And trust me - in that split second between falling and not falling, the heart in your throat can barely distinguish the two.
So, being the chivalrous girl that I am, I let Jason go first. I wasn't necessarily hoping he'd die. I figured that even if he just bruised a couple of vertebrae, I'd still get to ride in the ambulance with him to the hospital and thus, miss my turn.
But stupid Jason managed to scale the whole wall in like 26 seconds. The dude is strong. He says he's strong from all those mornings he had to drag me out of bed before noon. Grumpy Jamie is great resistance training.
And then it was my turn. I was nervous, but not too nervous because I'd updated my will before leaving the house. I decided to make friends with the faux-rock wall. After all, the tiny toeholds and fingerholds that would allow me to preserve life were painted in bright primary colours to lull me into a (false) sense of security. So I climbed. And I climbed. And I climbed and I climbed and I climbed. And when I looked down, I realized I was still only 6 inches off the ground. Turns out, I'm not a vertical climber, I'm a horizontal one. I kept going sideways when I should have been going up.
Eventually I found up, one tiny plastic hold at a time. Most people stay attached to the wall via fingers and toes, but as I found out the hard way, those little plastic knobs have no sense of decency. I was feeling pretty proud of myself when Jason yelled up "Hey Jamie, I think you have a harness wedgie!", which was about as helpful as you might imagine. It's hard to find a spare hand when you're using both of yours to stave off death, but I cozied up to the wall and picked away. Unfortunately, I leaned right into a pink plastic toehold, and it immediately found a very private place to call home.
Did I mention that I thought rock climbing to be a bit ridiculous? It's true. I can't imagine a scenario in which my new rock climbing skills will come in handy. I mean, when am I likely to be trapped on a large, sheer rock? Barring a pterodactyl picking me up and depositing me there, I doubt it'll come up. And frankly, after my "special" relationship with a certain toehold, I am not eager to make love to any more rocks. I mean, I think I showed that rock a pretty good time, and what did I get? Apart from the chapping in awkward places, not a whole lot. Rocks are very inconsiderate lovers.
Anyway, after our lesson in getting felt up by an inanimate object, we went out for a drink - at a juice bar. A juice bar! How yuppie is that? But I figured, hey, I'm already wearing yoga clothes in public, I may as well play the part - so I said yes to the wheatgrass and let Jason pour the stuff down my throat (my arms were dead - turns out, I'm heavy, and gravity's a bitch). I even lied and said it "wasn't completely gross".
Yes, it's true. I am a total romantic at heart.
Death be damned - I love dating my husband.