I chose the latter.

And what, you may ask, is the thing that pushed over the edge from (relatively) sane, (barely) normal, suburban corporate life into my Tom Cruise-level of crazy?  I can promise you, you're not going to see this coming.  Are you ready?

…

Here it comes…

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In August, I'm going on a 5-day backpacking trip through the Wind River Valley in Wyoming.

Serious.  I'm going on a 50+ mile hike through the Wyoming high country.  You can see several photos and a narrative at this website (which is also the source of the above photo).

On the surface, this may not seem like the standard definition of insanity, but let me explain why it is:

1. I haven't been camping since I was 15 years old
2. I didn't particularly enjoy it then
3. My idea of roughing it is spending a night in a Motel 6
4. There will be no electricity
5. Ergo, there will be no computers, cell phones, televisions, etc.
6. I have absolutely no experience on this kind of trip
7. I own no appropriate camping/hiking gear
8. It will be an elevations between 10,000 and 13,000 feet
9. I'm a lazy, lazy man
10. This will require pooping in a hole in the middle of nowhere outside in the open

One guess as to which one of those concerns me the most.  (Hint: #10)

So, what happened what this:  They say insanity runs in the genes.  I'm not sure exactly who "they" is, but "they" say that.  If "they" is correct, then I got my particular brand of insanity from my father.  Last summer, my dad, his Twin Brother™ and two other men went on a rather dangerous and difficult 8 day (I think), 85 mile backpacking trip along the Highline Trail in the Uinta Mountains of Utah.  He did this despite the fact that he is old enough to join AARP.  When dad got back from his trip, I spent a lot of time on the phone with him as he related his experience.  And my father is, if nothing else, a master storyteller.  He painted a picture for me that stirred my blood with excitement.  The trip was extremely difficult, but according to him, was a life-changing experience.  He described the nights with the skies so clear you could see the milky way stretch from one horizon to the other; of locations so remote, places so isolated that it was easy to forget that you weren't the last man alive.  He made me jealous.  I have never experienced anything like that.  The closest I get to experiences like that is when I take Luke to the dog park early enough in the morning that nobody else is out yet.

Also, this year, my little sister did something that was (to me) equally as impressive.  She hiked from one rim of the grand canyon to the other rim in a single day, a total of some ridiculous sum like 23 miles.  Her blog post about the experience got me going too. She managed to do something that was so difficult, but so completely rewarding.  It's almost like the two things go hand in hand.  Who knew?

So, when I went home for Christmas, dad showed me the pictures of his trip…and they were absolutely gorgeous.  And again I was jealous.  And then he did what he does every year: invite me to come along on the next trip.  I believe that he was fully expecting that, like every year since I was 14, I would make some smart-ass comment about staying in a Motel 6, and that would be that.  But his stories of the trail stirred something primal inside of me that has long been dormant/dead, and I got to thinking–"a dangerous pastime, I know".  I'm fairly certain that I took him off guard when I said that I wanted to go.

I think it's fairly unlikly that I will ever be one of those avid backpackers/hikers/outdoorsman.  Most of the time, I'd rather spend my weekend in my pajamas, sitting in front of my HDTV, and playing video games.  Or shopping.  Or going out to eat.  Or giving myself an appendectomy with a garden scythe.  But while doing those things (except for the appendectomy) are enjoyable, I feel like continuing to choose them over more participative activities is tantamount to throwing my life down the garbage disposal and flipping on the switch.  I'm young(ish), relatively healthy, and I want to experience life.  I have always assumed that I don't like backpacking, but I've never done it.  And maybe I'd really, really enjoy it.  Maybe I'll despise every second of it, and by the end of the trip, my dad will want to go all Abraham and Isaac on me up in the mountains because of my incessant complaining.  But I won't know until I've tried it.  There are enough things in life that I won't get to do because of time, money, fear, etc.  I don't want to give up what could be a life-changing experience (or a great new hobby) without trying it.

Plus, I just spent a butt-load of money on a new camera.  This seems like a truly excellent opportunity to do the kind of photography that most people don't even dream about. I mean, really, how often does someone (who isn't a photographer for National Geographic) get to carry a professional camera into the vast wilds for five days and snap photos like crazy?

So, I have agreed to go on a massive (for me) backpacking trip in August.  I get out of breath going up three flights of stairs.  My idea of exertion is making my bed.  This means that training started on Monday and will continue through August.  Training consists of:

• Losing 20 Pounds (See Resolution #3)
• Geting into Shape (See Resolution #6)
  • Cardio (Running, doing stairs)
  • Weights (Shoulders, Back, and Abs, especially…so I can carry a 45# pack)
  • Start eating real, natural food to fuel the process
• Begging, borrowing, or stealing as much equipment as necessary.  I don't want to start spending hundreds of dollars on equipment until I know for sure this is going to be a long-term hobby for me.  I don't need another money sink hole in my life, thank you very much
• Practicing hiking.  Start doing some day hikes on the weekends around the area.  Bring dog for company.

It's day four of the new routine, and I've already lost four pounds.  I've been running twice, except I can only run about a mile and a half, and now I have shin splints.  But I must persevere.  Because I'll be damned if I get out on the trail in August and I get my rear end handed to me by a couple of men old enough to get the senior citizen discount at Denny's.  I may be inexperienced, but I'm going to make sure that by the time August rolls around, I'll be ready.  Or I will have quit.  But either way, we'll know.

I'm really, really excited for this trip.  It hasn't even been fully planned yet, but I'm looking forward to it.  As I was telling my (insane) father, I'm scared to death of it, because it's so new, but it's also exciting.  I expect that it will be one of the more physically demanding things I've ever done in my life–going through puberty notwithstanding–but I feel like I really need to exert myself in a portion of my life.  I need something that will roust me from my ever-deepening rut and give me the motivation to get my act in gear.  I figure that there are few motivators more potent than the looming threat 50+ mile hike through the Wyoming high country with a heavy backpack and a couple of trash-talking geriatrics to get me headed down the right path.

And if I survive, I'll have a few amazing blog posts and (hopefully) thousands of pictures to share.

If I survive.

So, I got stung by a bee on Sunday—for the second time in less than a year.  Before that, I had never been stung by a bee.  The first time I was stung, I was standing out in the middle of the parking lot, talking with one of my neighbors, with my dog sitting next to me.  Out of the middle of nowhere, this douchebag of a bee just stung me on the back of my leg.  I wasn’t moving anywhere.  I wasn’t doing anything.  He just stung me.  He was just like most of the musical theater people I went to college with: he made me feel something for a brief moment, then left me annoyed and irritated for three weeks afterwards.  Apparently, I’m mildly allergic to bee stings.  DBB(Douche Bag Bee) stung me, I slapped him dead immediately, and very quickly pulled out the stinger he oh-so-graciously left protruding from the back of my calf.  Nevertheless, I spent the next three weeks with my leg sore, red, and itching like crazy.  It wasn’t so much with the fun.

Well, this last Sunday, I went walking with the dog down around Idlewood Park next to my apartment.  It was around 2:00 in the afternoon.  All of the sudden, right about the time I reached the two big pine trees in the middle of the picture below, I felt a very sharp pain on the underside of my arm…just about where the edge of my t-shirt sleeve would fall.  I didn’t see the culprit, but I knew the sensation…it was a bee sting.  DBB #2! This time, however, I couldn’t find the entry point, and there was no stinger there.  I figured I must have been stung by a wasp, since wasps have straight stingers, and they don’t stay stuck in the skin.  It certainly wasn’t pleasant, but I’m only a mild wuss, so I didn’t care too much.  In fact, I had totally put it out of my mind.

The next day, around 3:00 in the afternoon, I noticed that I was starting to itch something fierce on the bottom of my arm.  I looked, and sure enough, I had a big, fiery, red patch about the size of a slice of American cheese on the bottom of my arm.  It was quite warm to the touch, and stung, itched, and burned like crazy.  I figured, “Huh.  A slightly delayed reaction to a bee sting.  That’s weird.  I took some Benadryl, put some Hydrocortisone cream on there, took a couple of Advil, and went about my day.

Let me diverge from my story for a moment to express that I missed a calling in life as a Pharmacist.  I made some pretty darn killer over-the-counter drug cocktails.  Need treatment for a cold?  Flu?  Hysterical Pregnancy?  Spattergoit?  I can’t make you an OTC drug cocktail that will ease your pains…usually without killing you.  I’m like a St. Mungo’s healer, but without the whimsy or British accent.  I’ve taken enough medication in my life that I have become quite adept at adjusting doses, combining ingredients, and finessing OTC drugs to suit my purposes quite nicely.  Since I went from the age of 25 until about six months ago without having any health insurance (thanks a lot, cheapskate employers!) I couldn’t afford the $120 for a doctor and then another $80 for the prescriptions.  So I made due with $30 and a little ingenuity from Rite Aid.

In any case, by Tuesday morning, the patch of irritation had spread from the point of my bug bite/sting, all the way down to my elbow, and wasn’t letting up at all.  By this morning, the rash had spread from the bug bite to halfway between my elbow and my wrist.  Knowing my luck, a couple more days, and the rash would have made my entire arm fall off at the shoulder.  If I had thought that allowing that to happen would mean that I could go on disability for the rest of my life, I would have considered letting it happen, but alas, I can do my job one-handed.  It would slow my typing speed down from 90 WPM, but it would be an acceptable hit.  The biggest problem is that it was my right arm, and, being right-handed, I would have had to learn how to function as a lefty.  And my handwriting is already sloppy enough.  Besides, I promised myself that when I graduated from my MBA program that my learning days were over forever.

So, I finally broke down and went to the doctor.  He thought that, not only was I likely mildly allergic to bee stings, but that this particular sting had probably also gotten infected.  So, how here I am, back on antibiotics.  Cephalexin.  Also known as Keflex.  This was the pill that I took during more than half of my elementary and secondary school days as treatment for Bronchitis.  Blue Cross and Blue Shield of Michigan helped Middlebook Pharmaceuticals bigwigs make more than a few of their yacht payments because of me, I’m sure.

I’m also on a fairly strong steroid cream to help with the itching.  I’m hoping that, if I use up my steroid cream I’ll start to look a little like this:

P.S., I look pretty hot in that picture, right?  I think I’ll just need a couple more weeks in the gym, and I’ll be there even without the steroid cream. Maybe then I’ll be able to crush all the bees.

P.P.S.  This experience makes me wonder why having the sex talk is referred to as “Talking about the birds and the bees.”  I mean, sure, if you get stung, you swell up for nine months, but somehow, I don’t think that’s what the originators of that phrase had in mind.