Eat, Pray, Hate the Cold

It has come to my attention that this blog is "lame."  Based on this constructive feedback from the Smurf, I will attempt to rectify the situation for my one dedicated follower (I will point out, however, that I have shared this link with no one for expressly this reason).  Rest assured I have been accumulating a wealth of interesting and amusing information to post for your reading pleasure.

However, first you must endure this brief rant about the cold and nervous breakdowns.  I took off for the weekend - headed north of the border to Montreal in an effort to have a little time and space for introspection a la "Eat, Pray, Love" - a little respite from my mid-life crisis. Well, I need to work out exactly what this "Eat, Pray, Love" chic has going for her that I don't.  She got a book contract, an all-you-can-eat pasta orgy, sexy Italian tutors, spiritual enlightenment, and love on the beaches of Bali. 

I got thirty-six hours in the great frozen tundra. I spent the first 24 hours reassuring everyone that I had not gone off in the deep-end and the next 12 hours wondering if I had.  Who goes north in January?  It was at least 50 degrees below zero in Montreal, and with the wind chill it felt like -200 degrees.  Seriously.  I believe the tip of my nose dropped off somewhere on St. Catherine Street, but I was too freakin' cold to go back and look for it.  Seriously.  Insane.

So, instead of indulging in delectable Italian treats like my "Eat, Pray, Love" counterpart, I ate a heaping pile of poutine which necessitated walking two hours in the frigid air to eliminate the negative effects of cheese curds and gravy on my extremely strict Kilimanjaro training program (see following posts for my blubber vs. fitness training conundrum). It was during that frigid stroll that my nose fell off.

All that remains of B&J in the land of the iceberg. 

Thankfully I had a warm hotel room in an obscure building that was rendered excessively creepy by the fact that every hallway was under construction and had been stripped down to the concrete flooring (thank you Expedia for that excellent find).  Alas I am sounding a tad bitter, and I digress.  This blog is supposed to be about the Kilimanjaro Experience.  There is a connection here...really.

So, I walked a lot.  I ate exactly one meal of poutine (because it was too freakin' freezing to leave the hotel for a second meal), and I read a hilarious book by Mindy Kaling that reminded me that "the best revenge is living well..." She took it much further, but I promised my dear friend that I would not (despite the incredible temptation) post her full rant on my Facebook page. It spoke to my soul, and it was in unbelievably poor taste.  However, dear readers, if you should be so inclined as to read her book, "Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me?" see page four and picture me laughing my frozen ass off in the great white north.  For now, however, I will get back to the more admirable goal of living well.

By now you are asking probably yourself, "WTF does this have to do with Kilimanjaro?"  There really is a point...I promise.  As you will learn in following posts (a conglomeration of emails from the past few weeks), the Smurf has been sending a regular stream of motivational articles and videos about every person who has ever reached the summit of Kilimanjaro.  Apparently everyone and his/her mother has climbed this mountain.  It's actually pretty annoying.

I was waiting anxiously for the next installment, perhaps a video of Ronald McDonald summiting with his support team of Grimace and the singing french fries, but the Smurf had gone awfully quiet.  I inquired about the dearth of motivational material, and his response was, "I have decided we are going to die."  Fantastic.  Now the one delusional member of our climbing team had also come to terms with reality.  Instead of motivational videos, he now sends photos of the disgusting toilets to be found on the trail.

It only seemed fitting then that my parents arrived in Montreal to meet me for breakfast armed with a newspaper clipping from a friend featuring en extremely old guy from Florida who had recently made it to the top of Kili (naturally).  Another motivating success story to start my day with one small caveat, "the guide lost three toes to frostbite." Seriously?  I like my toes.  I already lost my nose.  What are we doing?