I’m sending this post to my blog from my phone to try to keep my NaBloPoMo dream alive. I only have a few moments to write, though, because I’m starving. Everyone at my table is starving.
We worked up an appetite today because we manage to get slightly lost in a national park near a beach, which might sound scientifically impossible because you would think the Gulf shoreline would provide an East-West line of reference but you (and I don’t mean to blame “you” because I really mean “me” and you’ve already figured that out, you smart cookie you) would be wrong, because the shoreline curves and doesn’t inform the park paths beyond it, and just trust me, it was confusing, because all palmetto bushes and twisted bark trees look alike and also because I was subsisting on pumpkin seed trail mix and that’s just silly.
At one point in my misadventure I thought my companions and I had made the critical 127 Hours Mistake of not telling anyone where we were going, and therefore we would end up having to cut off our arms, which, let’s face it, would be an even larger tragedy for lesbians than it was for James Franco.
I wondered how the dynamics of the arm cutting would change given that 1) I wasn’t alone, there were 8 arms in all on this hike and 2) no body parts were stuck between rocks, yet. I also tried to figure out what day it would be after we had been lost for 127 hours, but the math of daylight savings time was screwing up my “carry-ones.”
My companions assured me we were in no danger of limb hacking, but I was suspicious. Call it Donner Party Awareness. I’ve often worried on hikes that because of my size, if push came to shove and someone in the hiking party needs to be cannibalized, that I would be the sacrificial lamb.
My thinking is even I would sacrifice me first because my flesh is well-marbled and able to feed a crowd–so one kill would give them good, boneless ribeyes for the fire and less of that worrisome drumstick gnawing that would really remind you that you were chowing on a friend. Also, I can’t run fast at all. So forgive me for not accepting their assurances: I could see a hunger in their eyes that pumpkin seed trail mix simple wasn’t going to keep at bay much longer.
But we lived! Found our way to safety! And by safety I mean restaurants with full bars!! And now we are waiting for tapas!!!!! I stole a few moments to blog so that I could fulfill my NaBloPoMo commitment, but it’s time for me to go.
In a moment I will be working the south slope of the tapas table facing 3 other lesbians, all of whom still have all of their limbs — so that’s eight skilled arms reaching for the olive tapenade and remoulade-drizzled crab cake bites, you know what I mean? I need to put this phone away and have all hands on deck. The pumpkin seed trail mix was a LONG time ago and I’m not sure we’ve ordered enough little plates of food for everyone to feel like they had dinner.
In fact, in the odd case that I don’t return by the end of daylight savings time, remember to tell someone the last place I was heard from, and tell them to interview the survivors about their last meal. My ribeyes might not be out of the woods just yet.