It wouldn't be nifty waking up to newly-green and black and purple pain blossoms unless they reminded you of the afternoon you spent scrambling through the trees at Sandy Spring Adventure Park. V went there for a party a few weeks ago; when I picked her up afterward and asked how she liked it she said, "I thought I was going to die! It was terrifying! You should try it!" Since it's minutes from where she has a lesson every Saturday, it seemed like we could easily make that happen.

Then B was in town this weekend so we brought him along. And fearless J was available, so she joined us there. They all had a great time. I was delighted to finish without breaking anything beyond a few capillaries. While I was on the courses (you can do as many as you like in a three-hour window—we could only fit three in that time) I was indeed terrified, except for the last few zip lines. I did learn to love the zip lines. I'm pretty sure I will never learn to love the little tray that slides along two cables twenty feet above the surface of the earth, slides along and deposits you ingloriously a yard short of the platform. In my dreams I have destroyed you a hundred hideous ways, little tray. I have successfully transferred my hatred to the little tray, where it is better centered than on the trio of tweens chirping encouraging suggestions from the platform behind me as I dragged my supine bulk that final mile using only the inside bendy parts of my knees and elbows.

I would definitely do it again. Also, I think we should have more zip lines everywhere.