Climb for Hospice

I get on the plane in 50 days.

I’m not ready.

Whenever I meet people I haven’t seen in a while, they inevitably ask me a variation of the following two questions:

1) How’s the training going?

2) Are you ready?

To which I usually answer with a variation of:

1) Great! I’m getting really excited!

2) I’m gettin’ there!

What I’d like to answer with is:

1) Awful. I feel like I’ll never do enough training, and I’ve gotten lazy and complacent, underestimating the mountain and totally overestimating my physical prowess. I don’t know the exact start date of my climb, and I’m petrified of having to crap into a bucket that some poor ill-paid porter has to lug up a mountain and back. My cardio sucks, my leg strength blows donkey nuts, and the thought of multiple nights of high-altitude camping makes me crazy. I may die before I reach the summit.

2) Nope. Not ready at all. In fact, the thought of getting on the plane is enough to make me want to vomit and convulse with fear and apprehension. I’m going broke, I don’t have solid plans in place, and I’m afraid that I’m going to get robbed and beaten while wandering the streets of Zanzibar. I may die before I reach base camp. But hey, thanks for asking!

So much to do, in so little time, and I’m wasting precious moments worrying about how much I have to do in such a little amount of time.

50 days.