Slip Sliding Away

Certain gene pools will give you good teeth, predispositions to sickle cell anemia, mid-digit hair growth, or two different colored eyes like Kate Bosworth. I inherited a shelf ass. Like, shelfier than most. So shelfy that my brother once tried to sit on it. So shelfy that my sisters (one of whom is pictured above, alongside my shelf ass, wearing stage makeup) mused about me having my own TV show where I was a "butt-ler" and did things such as serve tea, churn butter, and sort mail with my ass. So shelfy that I once broke a porch swing, ripped right through a lounge chair, and got stuck on a waterslide. All in one summer.

This is not going to be a Tyra-esque story about how I learned to "embrace my booty" (Which, by the way, was the theme of one of her recent episodes. Way to make a great leap ahead for all womankind, Tyra. So revolutionary! You're right THIS is what we should be concerned with). No, this is about how I managed to get stuck on the waterslide.

Since I was about nine or ten, I have been one in a group of four or five friends who makes the annual cabin retreat up to Bay Lake for an extended weekend of boozing and wheelchair racing. The boozing wasn't until college, but the wheelchair racing is a tradition firmly rooted in the past so we try to keep it alive as much as possible. This trip often includes a jaunt into the nearby city of Brainerd, and on more than one occasion has included "disguising" ourselves as guests at the resort across the lake. This way we could use their steam room, kayaks, and giant floating trampoline.

On this particular visit, while in our early teens, Britta and I somehow caught the unwelcome and relentless attention of a lonely/diabolical nine-year-old girl. She followed us into the gift shop, to said steam room, around the indoor pool, by the lockers, to play pinball, and etc. We tried to lose her by swimming out farther than any pre-pubescent should be able. Nothing worked so we resigned to the fact that she'd be toddling after us all day and that would be the price we'd pay in exchange for her silence. Having grown up a little sister of her own, Britta was very good at negotiating this.

Being sort of late in the day, the beachfront had pretty much emptied. Free of little kids, aside from our own special tagalong, Britta and I had unfettered access to all the things that teenagers should be too cool to play with or on, but which were still extremely fun. This mostly meant the crap waterslide that spat you out into the shallow water.

Britta went down first, I climbed the ladder behind her, and Dobby the house elf was about one second behind. I positioned myself excitedly as Britta shot out into the water and squirmed to give myself a push from the top of the slide. I believed this little move is what locked me in place so solidly.

I tried again.

Nothing.

From behind me came Dobby's little voice, "You can just go ahead. She's already done! She's out there! In the water!"

Me: "I can see her. I know. I'm trying herrrrreeee."

Dobby: "I've been down it like ten times. It's not scary! Don't be scared!"

Me: "I'm not scared. I'm just stuck. Now if you want to be helpful, you could go fetch me some olive oil or perhaps some butter...."

Britta: (laughing uncontrollably from down below)

In the end, I was glad to have Dobby there. Had she not been anxiously awaiting her turn down the slide, I don't know how I would have gotten that extra little push that eventually sent me down my one and only turn on that slide.