How Low Can I Go?

This past weekend, I went to Daniel's birthday party. It was fun, boozy. and even included a pinata. With one foul swing, Daniel decapitated a pinata. Shortly thereafter, Kirsten and Jessica started a game of limbo using the stick. Each time the stick was lowered, I thought, there is no way I can do that, it is far too low. Yet each time, I miraculously passed to the next round. My strategy at limbo is to quickly tilt backwards and sprint under the stick before gravity catches up to me. Since I'm not particularly flexible, I have no hopes of bending backwards and precariously shuffling forward like most limbo champions because I inevitably fall. Though I don't even remember the last time I limbo-ed, I know that this strategy was unsuccessful at its last implementation. This time, however, it brought me all the way to the final two with a dance major/Pilates instructor. I vowed not to kill my back in a friendly competition against a far more skilled opponent. But when she tried twice and failed twice to clear the next level, I figured I better employ my strategy to the fullest and go for it. And wouldn't you know it? I won. It surprised even me, though not as much as this photo finish:



That photo was taken a split second after I cleared my victory round, and there is not one flattering aspect to it. If I realized my strategy made me look like that, I would have probably been too embarrassed to try it. It's the kind of party photo that most people would demand their friends erase, but that I embrace for it's ridiculousness. I look toothless, my brows are furrowed, and I have no fewer than thirty chins. Evidently, I committed to that limbo even more than I thought. Katy says it looks like I ran right into an invisible wall.

Thanks to Daniel for capturing and sharing that photo.

Afterwards, someone came up to me and said, perhaps joking, that he lost money on the limbo contest. "I mean of course you'd pick the Pilates instructor before the school teacher," he said. The phrase "school teacher" stung. It's funny how much I resent that term when applied to me. I'm so much more than that! I am not lame! I don't even want to be one anymore! The next day, however, something stung even more: the muscles in my upper legs. The pain lasted for three days, in fact, leaving me hobbling and grimacing as I walked. Clearly, I contorted in ways I was never meant to. I suppose school teachers really shouldn't limbo.