I drive my mother's mini-van up to camp. The road is straight uphill, unpaved, and covered with rocks. Bumpity-bump we go. I do not get woo-head. I do not even get mildly dizzy. I ignore people flipping me the bird when I realize it is not because of my driving, but because of Mom's choice in bumper stickers, proclaiming her support of Obama, public radio, and elitist liberal art colleges. I smile and wave. The girls and I are safe and on time.
A hornet lands on my arm. It fails to sting me.
I realize that I've sneezed a grand total of three times since my arrival at camp. I've had worse allergies than this in my dentist's office. It's as if no blade of grass, no tree nor bush can harm me. I wonder if perhaps I have become immortal. To double check, I trip over a tree root. The ensuing bruise confirms that I am indeed still human. The meager size of the bruise confirms that some higher power has heard the pleas of myself and my other dedicated blog-readers.
We are in bear country. We see nary a bear.
It's our turn on the much-buzzed-about zipline, which is less a real zipline and more an elementary-school-playground get-up that happens to cross a deep ravine. I'm in charge of waiting at the bottom to help the girls dismount. They fly to me at Superman speeds. They ask me to try. Despite worries of woo-head and Bad Hand, I oblige.
Once I get on the zipline, time seems to slow down. Then I realize that no, it is not TIME slowing down, I am actually moving slow-motion in real-time. I dangle over the ravine, admiring its beauty, vaguely aware that something has gone awry. "Bend your knees!" the girls say. I do, but it does not change anything. I gradually stop short of the finish line. There is no need for help dismounting. Which is good, because no one would be able to. They're all rolling on the ground, crying with laughter. I am unscathed.
It pours rain. Lighting strikes a tree. Ominous smoke billows. This tree is not on our campsite.
The tree hit by lightning on our campsite is fine, as are we.
The mini-van's battery is dead, but luckily we have a nice neighbor with jumper cables and a leader named Grandpa with a powerful truck and engine know-how.
My flesh wounds are so scant I can count them: 6. This is a 317% improvement over last year.
I love you, girls. We are small but mighty.