“You people!” That’s what my girlfriend says to dismiss those without a full complement of X chromosomes—especially climbers. My baby loves me, but there are some things honeydip won’t tolerate. For instance, she draws the line at toenails that flake off in bed, and me shopping for commercial vacuum cleaner solvent to heal an aching shoulder. If it’s “not intended for use on skin,” why did they package D-M-S-O in a roll-on? I rest my case.
Winter means bouldering, but for some reason she frowns on my peers buying C-clamps at the hardware store to mend blown out tendons. “You people,” she mutters. “It’s a miracle the species continues.” Am I really that far beyond the pale when I look at a roadside pull-out deep in the mountains and think aloud, “If I lived here I’d be home now…”? Is that really so wrong? She should take her case up with Lito and the Funhogs.
But somehow, along the way, compromise entered into the equation. She concedes that stinky poly-pro may in fact be the new black, and I, in turn, get to send the El Cap of laundry on Sunday mornings. I am not to digress into endless accounts of anything involving a Roman Numeral 6 or the letter V while in mixed company. In exchange, I get to hatch my plans for a satellite-up-linked web-cam of pie selections at the diner in Tuolumne Meadows. So long as I don’t drop veggie-chicken nuggets in the toaster to feed road-tripping visitors, she’ll give me a wide berth when I need my space – and not just because I’m wearing the poly-pro. After all, let’s face it. The topo and I need to be alone.
(Originally written for an old Black Diamond. They couldn't handle the truth and it didn't run!)
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