Strangely, the accurate prediction of my complete fucking failure doesn’t make it suck any less.
For some reason, I’m laughing.
A couple of months ago, I needed to get away, so I dragged one of my favorite people to Arizona with me for the weekend to play in the desert. We took a road trip, with some pretty awesome detours, and eventually ended up in the Grand Canyon around sunset.
Being the rocket scientists that we are, we decided to venture past the safety rails and clamber down to this plateau. It looked solid from further back, but once we reached the weathered edge, we noticed it was actually two very separate plateaus, complete with a 6 foot gap and 500 ft drop in between. Smoke, being 6’2” and generally a badass, leapt across the gap like some weapon toting gazelle, and looked back at me to ask if I could make the jump.
After my 5’4 ass was done laughing at him, I peered into the gap and realized that the rough stone had - over the years - broken into natural footholds, and that about 4-5 feet down, the gap narrowed to the point that I could step across it if I were careful. I won’t bore you with the bickering that ensued about my safety and the comments I endured about my sanity, but somehow I got my way. The view was breathtaking, with no rails, or people, or distractions. Just the jaw dropping expanse of the Grand Canyon, laid out before us like a painting.
I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to feel the desert air ghost over my skin and watch the colors in the rock walls deepen with the night. Unfortunately, even I had to admit that climbing around in the dark would be a less than prudent idea that would probably result in me falling to my death. Having admitted that, I looked into the gap only to realize I’d committed a cardinal sin of free climbing - I didn’t have a route back. Oops.
Smoke jumped across again, and crouched beside the edge, talking me through my foothold options. When it came time for the final push and scramble up to safety, I defaulted to something Marisa and I say to each other in times of frustration or stress. Browncoats will get this one.
I looked up at him, wiping the fear off my face, and said “Wash, tell me I’m pretty.” Which would have worked a whole lot better if Smoke had ever seen Firefly. Instead, he gave nee a confused look, and said “you’re pretty” before offering me his hand and helping to pull my fear frozen self up the last of the rock face. We stood there for a moment, him contemplating my strange request, and me contemplating my own capacity for stupidity, and then he turned to me and said “why’d you ask me to tell you you’re pretty?” I shook my head, chuckled a bit, and explained that it was a Firefly thing.
He nodded, and then said to me “I guess that makes sense. I just thought you were asking in case you fell into the canyon and, you know, died.” And all I could think was that a: Lord, I am lucky to have people that would fulfill something like that without hesitating, and b: YOU ACTUALLY THOUGHT THAT WAS A FUCKING CONCERN? ASS.