Dating a rock climber
You’ll be jealous, you’ll resent having to stay in shape, you’ll be insecure, you’re the type of guy that calls women “psycho,” and to conclude, you’re jealous (again).
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Sometimes they did, and it was never that they didn’t stick around; I didn’t.
Admittedly, I have never truly dated a climber; a proper date consists of going out to dinner or to the aquarium, or just spending time in a non-climbing capacity, right?
It’s up on the website of the “Daily Camera” which is apparently a Boulder newspaper.
In a year, my latitude and longitude have probably changed more than my underwear, although for seven months I had given a stoic effort to put down real roots.
Denver was starting to feel a little bit like home, and then I left for a month, seven thousand miles away, which was ultimately too far for a relationship to endure.
A “five-year plan” doesn’t really exist, let alone a “one-year plan”.
Last year, I had bumped into a vagabonding friend from SLC and he told me that this was likely his “last hurrah”.
Afraid that it was mine, too, I vowed to make it last as long as I could—and then I found myself, a year and a half later, being asked the same question.