Debunking Spelunking:
Inside Girl's report of the cub scout caving adventure taken with hubby (Mr B) and youngest son (lil brother)
For the record-Mr B LIED to me. “Oh, you’ll only have to crawl a few times”-cannot even be called an understatement. Ya’ll-this was a grueling 4 hr knee/elbow/belly adventure through mud, streams, over hangs, and worm holes. It was shoulder rolls and gut twists with stalactite's jammed into your boob and stalagmites rammed up your butt.
If you make your wife crawl on her boobs for four hours, karma will find you in a cave. She tapped Mr B on the shoulder within the first 11 minutes of the descent. Mr B became the sole savior of a hysterical woman who had
sizable issues and struggles (dear reader-please appreciate the
subtleties here for kindness sake). Mr B was her chosen man for the job, and she would not let him out of her sight for even a
minute. And it was Mr B's job to push, shove, squeeze, console, hoist, and throw her over every ledge and incline. She screeched, gasped, moaned, and cried his name the entire 4 hours-even though our party consisted of many able bodied men-none of whom were willing to take Mr B’s place-by the way. And yes-karma required that Mr B have his face and hands all up in her bid’ness. I, of course, stayed 20 feet in front of this debacle the entire trip-the perfect vantage point to watch Mr B squat-thrust this woman over 15 foot rock cliffs with 70 foot drop-offs.
Confession: I did inappropriately fondle the guide. In my defense-it was an act of desperation that took us both by surprise. But considering all the action that Mr B was getting at the back of the line-it was a pretty fair trade off. And I got the better deal.
I only had a “SH*T!SH*T!SH*T!” moment once-but all parties involved survived-and the seven year old spectators seemed to find this cave language perfectly acceptable.
My first f-bomb landed 2 ½ hours into the trek. A rather amazing feat of which I am quite proud. I managed to keep all my f-bombs clamped tightly between my teeth and under the breath. But once you open the hatch-you’re gonna drop the mother load after that. No help for it.
The final 30 foot belly crawl prior to topside release nearly did me in. My mental and physical reserves were tapped, and I could feel crazy bi-atch coming fast. However I managed to stuff her back in the box as I laid on my back, shoulder pinned, and head twisted sideways looking over a slick, jagged overhang as Mr B with his arms tightly wrapped around this woman’s dead weight girth, his jugular and eyes bulging, face red and straining, in squat thrust position while his damsel-in-distress shrieked, lunged, cried, and clung to him, before he single handedly gave her the mighty pelvic thrust up and over. This was the impetus I needed to get the hell outta there-sans pelvic thrust, thank you very much.
Once topside, Mr B said (much later-and certainly not in the moment) that I had the rolling-one-eyed-crazy-cut-you-look going on.
Guilty! I certainly can relate to how an old, temperamental mare trapped in a burning barn might feel. I don’t want to be saved. Or helped. I’m gonna bust through on my own, and you just need to leave the barn door wide and let me do
my thang.For the record, I have a new found appreciation for Mr B's (
ahem)...
skills. I will be chuckling today as I give Mr B his ibuprofen every 4-6 hours. But the vote is in. Mr B and lil brother have both decided-and I concur-
WE ROCK!!!
