04 April 2012

Wonderbras, Tequila and Angry Monkeys

What happens when Krissy gets all emotional and overwhelmed with life? I do ridiculous fucking things in an effort to distract myself from...well...everything. Once? I decided to ride my bike down to southern Indiana to see some caves. You can read about that here: Caves . I did not, of course, find the stupid caves. I found donkeys. By the time I found the donkey, I didn't care anymore about the caves. 

On a completely separate occasion I decided to drive to Kentucky for the day - simply because I had never seen Kentucky. So I drove there. For no reason. 

But my favorite emotion-avoiding activity is drunken tree climbing, strictly because sober tree climbing is not nearly as much fun.

And so one evening...having had more than a few shots of tequila, I ask H if he would like to go and climb the tree in the backyard with me. I don't know if H was as drunk as I was or if he just thought I should not be climbing trees alone under extreme emotional distress and slightly intoxicated as well. 

We stumble from the bar to H's backyard where I immediately begin climbing the large tree I have been thinking about climbing for the last few weeks. It's a huge tree.

H and I? We climb the tree.

M and T? Stand beneath the tree shaking their heads at us and then handing us our beers when we decide we have reached a comfortable spot in the tree. H and I drink beers, and then M and T hand us up cigarettes. We flick our butts and drain our bottles and hand the empty bottles down to M and T. M is standing on a lawn chair - because she is short and doesn't want to climb the trees with us. T declines to climb the tree because his back was injured in some sort of freak stripper pole accident - he doesn't like to talk about it.

In any case, having finished our cigarettes and beers, I decide to climb higher into the tree, because, as H says, the higher you climb; the farther you see. I have tried to explain to him that in real life? The higher you climb; the farther you fall...but he is one of those glass half-full kinds of people. 

And so, in all of my drunken and misplaced confidence, I move up the tree like a monkey. Sorta. I lean out to place most of my body weight on a half-dead limb that almost immediately cracks and breaks away. H's hand shoots out like a ninja, and grabs the strap of my tank top and bra. 

For some ridiculous reason, I find this to be a hilarious situation and H does not help contain the absurdity of it all.

"I'm sorry. So sorry, Krissy. I swear to God, I am not trying to feel your boob. Oh shit. I am so sorry." At this point, H is attempting to pull me up far enough so that I can grab a hold of the branch my leg is now wrapped around... but I am laughing so hard and he is shaking and nearly hyperventilating, so it goes rather slowly. 

I am trying to tell him that it doesn't matter if he uses my bra strap or my boob to save my life at this point, just as long as he saves it. H does not see any humor in the situation, maybe because I am drunker than he is.

After what seems like an eternity, I able to grab the branch and H moves his hands to cover his heart and wonders if he is having some sort of heart attack or if it is just a panic attack. 

I thank him, profusely, for saving my life and go on to brag about the awesomeness of my bra straps until his face is maybe glowing red, even in the dark. 

We descend the tree and H thinks he needs to go to bed and hugs me extra hard and tells me that I have made him have his very first panic attack. I am glad to have exposed him to these new life experiences. I tell him he is welcome. 

He makes some comment about me climbing trees like a monkey in front of M and T. It seems harmless, but is actually not, because it sparks a good three hour discussion about monkeys. orangutans, gorillas and their mating habits, and also how to avoid an attack by an orangutan... in the case you are ever subjected to angry monkeys. H is maybe giggling as he walks away, because he knows damn well where this conversation is going to go when he makes the comment. 

I tell T that I am reasonably certain that I will never encounter and angry monkey, and if I happen to encounter a happy monkey, I will go out of my way to make sure I do nothing to anger the monkey. This does not really help the situation... instead it opens a whole new and disturbingly philosophical conversation about how I would know if the monkey was happy or not. 

I tell T he has entirely too much time on his hands to think about shit.


3 comments:

  1. Hands over my ears, lalalalalalala!!! NOT to mention my eyes!!!

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  2. Of course you can tell when a monkey is happy or not. Even dogs smile (which is hilarious when you are drunk, by the way.) The real question is how do you know how to act around the monkeys with the bright red butts? They seem so angry all the time, but how can one be so mad when their butt looks like that? I would laugh all the live long day if my friends butt was like that. I think we talked about that that night too, but sometimes all the sparlking grapejuice makes me forget things....M

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  3. Most disturbing? T has actually considered the possibility of an angry monkey attack and has formulated a plan of action...

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