Saturday, July 30, 2005

I'm not much of a mountain goat.

Today a trip to Dinosaur Park proved that nothing really ever changes much at all. Less than five minutes into the water, and after having been thoroughly mocked by my dear friends who remember (all too well) my prior spills, I passed off my camera (it's too dangerous for me to hold it), slid on the slime, and flew face-first onto a nice big rock. Cue the uproarious laughter. For you see, my dear, dear friends had just been deciding whether to place bets on just how thoroughly I would fall--waist deep (not a chance), neck deep, head deep--and the one with money on head deep would have made a whole lot of money, except that odds were less than 1:1.1, so hey, a lot of money would have had to have been riding on it.

The maddening thing is that I always fall. Always. ALWAYS. My record is perfect. You would think that I would learn a tiny bit of balance, but no, the ground is a supermagnet and I'm a chunk of iron.

The reward for falling? Chopped brisket BBQ in Glen Rose. YUM. And suddenly it's all worth it, and I'm ready to go flop face-down in the creek again. Hooray for Texas!

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