Standing up, I began to jog down like the guys were doing. If the smiley face in sunglasses emoji was an emotion, that was me. A big old drunk idiot jogging down a mountain feeling the fucking epitome of cool. I was going to contact MTV and Dr. Phil to tell them about how I was the success story to end all success stories.
It wasn't long after that when I noticed I was going faster down the mountain than the two guys, who'd spent all fucking weekend sprinting around like puppies while I spent most of my energy on complaining and standing up after falling. Not now, though. Suddenly, I was the motherfucking Road Runner, and I was here to make everyone else look like modified-push-up-doing bitches. It was not the natural order of things.
Then I thought, "Wait, when the fuck did I start running?" Jogging, skipping, and power walking I'm down with, but no amount of feel-good emotional bullshit will make me run ... but gravity will! The hill was getting steeper, and without realizing it, I was sprinting down it, my feet desperately trying to keep up with how fast my body was hurtling downhill. I thought, "Aw, fuck. I'm totally going to fall" maybe two seconds before I pitched forward and ate shit. I then continued to eat shit as I fucking somersaulted down the mountain.
Once my fragile doll body had flopped to the bottom, I just sort of laid there dazed, and contemplated my life choices. That was cut short by the guys running up to make sure I wasn't dead so they wouldn't feel bad about laughing. I was not dead, unfortunately. Mother Nature had just put me in my place, and that place was flat on my ass, bleeding profusely from all of the places from which I had just sacrificed skin to the mountainside.
I bought water in the town and tried to clean myself off. I was not Claritin Clear, I was Neosporin Defeated. I think, sensing how disappointed I was, one of the guys bought me a small box of wine, which I stuck a straw in and moodily drank from at the bus stop. I got on the bus with matted, post-beetle-sex hair, and glazed in a mix of dried blood and dirt. At least I had boxed wine, which classes up any occasion, including almost dying.
It took weeks for everything to heal. Every time I moved or showered or picked a fucking pebble out of my shoulder, I felt a grudging respect for nature. To this day, I will jaywalk while texting, I will stand too close to the edge of the metro platform, I will talk back to drunk, screaming homeless men, I will brazenly eat raw cookie dough, but never again am I fucking with nature.
Alice Jane Axness is a boxed wine model who hopes you will follow her on Twitter.
For more insider perspectives, check out 7 Things No One Tells You About Being Homeless and 6 Unexpected Things I Learned From Being a Drug Dealer.
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