Squeezing in all of the wrong places.
While shooting a sizzle reel this past weekend, one of the scenes required yours truly to zipline, which I had never done before. Being a virgin to this activity, I was more concerned with which color of cowboy boot to adorn (naturally), rather than mentally prepping for the hours of hanging by a harness from a rope.
The anguish of important decisions.
Upon our arrival to the site, two zip instructors gussied my friend K-bell and I up in their finest attire.
Sexiness not included with harness.
While I had no trouble cruising into my adorable harness that made my already ample ass triple three sizes, I made myself vocal (one of my shining qualities) about messing up my ‘do when it came time to wearing the non-fabulous head ornament.
Bitching for one minute…
…and moaning and groaning two more.
I was wondering if my instructor, Charlie wouldn’t have to wear a helmet because his hair created one for him.
Helmet head au natural.
When I’d gotten complaining out of my system (for the time being), we were ready to conquer this ziplining shit.
As you can see, Charlie was not at all excited about devirginizing two celibate zippers.
Then it was time to make the trek to our first destination, which was far enough away that I had to squint to see the platform. And of course I had something to say about it.
You want me to walk where?
I’m out of breath. My feet hurt. Anyone bring a flask?
Once we arrived to the top of the shortest mountain in Tennessee, I was beyond ready to swing from the sky like Tarzan.
Bring it, Bitch.
In case we needed to know how not to land, there was a handy diagram on our equipment.
If you love your knee function, don’t do this.
Once I’d zipped 42 times (which therefore made me an expert on the sport) I had wise words of wisdom in how to accomplish a first attempt for my gal pal…
“Don’t be a pussy.”
Upon us both conquering the bunny hill of zipping, it was time for different camera angles. And while Ian, my camera dude, was placing the camera just so, I’m pretty sure he was thinking that working with me was a dream come true as I talked at him…
My feet hurt, can I sit down?
That’s too tight on my head.
Watch the aviator shades, Son!
When it came time to zip while wearing the lovely head apparatus, Charlie apparently thought I’d be able to hook myself up to the line all by my lonesome since I’d watched him do it for me 926 other times. It was then that I had to clue him in on my fingernail mantra, “Jewels, not tools.”
I’ll just stand here and not break a nail while you hook me up again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again.
After zipping for four hours straight, not only were my thighs screaming due to overuse, my crotch was numb from being the sole bearer of my body weight.
Take 1,479. Ice pack, please.
It’s a wrap! Hallelujah. Do you think we’ll ever be able to have babies after this?
Making it back down the hill and posing with our studly instructors, Forest and Charlie, I ripped my harness off faster than a dress hits the floor on prom night.
We made it.
We did it.
I made an ass out of myself and it’s captured on film.
But, I survived.
Wish I could say the same for my shit kickers…
Casualties of ziplining.
Oh, and my crotch is still numb if you were wondering.