Wrangler Dani

There is nothing better than snowshoeing, dreaming, shooting guns, playing games and laughing heartily to fill the soul. The fella and I just got back from a week in Oregon, and I was feeling a tiny bit melancholy about it, when friends stopped by and ate some grass-fed Oregon beef with us and I remembered how lucky we are, wherever we might live.

Also, on a less sappy note, I am uncoordinated.

On Friday night, Adam and I started dancing in the kitchen, which set off a swing-dancing free-for-all in my parent’s house. (By free-for-all, I mean that Brudda and Sista and the Fella and I were desperately trying to remember cool moves while Mom and Dad smartly and sedately twirled each other about.) After seeing Brudda effortlessly hoist athletic Sista over his back, Adam and I decided that this was a good idea for us to try too.

In theory, it sounds quite wonderful. I can even show you how great it looks. Watch:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LAAAV7BB1HU&fs=1&hl=en_US]

Notice at about 1:40, when the tattooed artsy man lifts the pretty coordinated girl over his back and she lands gracefully on her feet? Well. One of my continual downfalls is that I, unlike cats and athletic people, very, very rarely land on my feet. My family knows this. I was the kid who was finally convinced to roll down a small hill on rollerblades only to crash into a tree, the one who finally got up the courage to jump off of a swing and busted my lip, the one who was convinced to be goalie only to have a hockey puck stick my lips to my braces in a very painful and unattractive fashion. This is why I stick to snowshoeing and other slow-moving sports, people. Many bruises have conspired to teach me that I am not built for challenging terrain. At any rate, I still foolishly attempt things like skiing and flipping upside-down whilst dancing, and I was assured by my family that they were looking out for me, so I felt somewhat safe sacrificing my body for the cause of family fun and good dance moves. However, this is an artist’s rendition of what happened, when my non-tattooed artsy man lifted me over his back:

Except I did not have on a skimpy sequined dress, and I’m fairly certain that my ENTIRE body weight rested on my head. No graceful help from manicured fingers or strong shoulders, here. I hit square on the thinker.  Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. WHERE ARE MY FEET?! I don’t know, why did I catch a hockey puck with my face? Why don’t we say “thither” any more? Why are Honey Nut Chex so addicting? These are questions that will always haunt me, my friends. You’re welcome.

After the significant crack of cranium on hardwood floor I looked up to see much concern, but not much action happening on the part of my “spotters”.

“Why didn’t you catch her?!” wailed Mom, looking at both Dad and Brudda with the disdain that mediocre spotters receive. They probably gave a reason. I don’t remember much these days.

Anyhoodle, I once again proved to myself that I have a hard head. And that heating pads are gifts from the Lord, Amen.