Page 6 of My Favorite Bad Decision
Yes, I sort of knew what I was in for, but it’s hitting me with renewed vigor. Because I’ve gotten used to a certain lifestyle. I’ve gotten used to my morning protein shake, my expensive supplements, an ice-cold eucalyptus-scented towel when I finish working out at my bougie gym. I’ve gotten used to sheet stitching so delicate you can barely feel the seams, and long, hot showers with my rose-scented bodywash followed by a six-step routine for my skin.
And I realized I would have none of those things for a few days but…what if I can no longer exist without them? What if I’m incapable of sleeping without my temperature-controlled mattress and my perfectly seamless sheets? What if I can’t stomach the food, if my gut revolts against all the starch? It would be bad enough to be sleepless and shitting my pants in front ofanyone, but to do so in front of West?
It’s a fate worse than death.
I sit up.
I can’t do it. I just can’t. There are seven other routes, and I have money. There’s got to be a way to switch.
Reinvigorated, I leave my tent and cross the grounds, which are bustling with the arrival of a second bus. Couples wander by hand in hand, smiling. I guesstheyknew what they were getting into with the sleeping situation.
I enter the large tent, which has some kind of dining area on one side and employees behind a counter at the other.
“Hi,” I say with my most winning smile. “I was wondering if I might be able to change tour groups and go on a different route?”
The two women behind the desk look at each other with raised brows. Their shoulders sag at the same time. “I don’t know what is in the water today,” says the shorter of the two. “No one ever asks to shift tours this late, ever, and you’re the second request in an hour.”
My stomach tightens. Did Miller ask to move to the other group because ofme? How incredibly insulting.I’mthe only one who is allowed to be mad. And God, it would just figure if I changed to some shittier, longer tour only to discover that West had changed too.
“Someone changed? Do you know who?” I ask.
“A couple just switched to the Machame route,” she says. “So if you’re on that route, we might have space available on Lemosho.”
Fuck. I shake my head. “I was hoping to switchfromthe Lemosho route. Is there any way to add a person onto Machame? I’m happy to pay extra.”
She smiles, but her eyes are sayingrich fucking westerners will waste money on anything.
“I’m sorry,” she replies. “It just isn’t possible. We’d need to move porters from one route to the other, and since the Lemosho route takes two days longer, those porters wouldn’t get any rest between journeys.”
I’m tempted to suggest that I don’t need the porters, that I can carry my own belongings or make do with less, but who am I fooling? I’m standing here with a fresh blow-out, wearing a designer T-shirt I own in five colors because it doesn’t irritate my skin…No one is going to believe I will needlesshelp than others on this trip. EvenIdon’t believe it, and I’m capable of tricking myself into an awful lot.
“Okay,” I say, swallowing hard. “Is there, uh, room service? I didn’t see a menu.”
She shakes her head with another apologetic smile. “It’s best that you not eat in your tent—it draws animals.”
Gulp. I’m not about to argue with that one. Trekking to Mt. Kili with West might be a fate worse than death…but not death by lion attack.
The woman directs me toward the dining hall. I’m chagrined to find Deb and Daniel there as I carry my salad to the table. Daniel laughs, again, at the fact that I didn’t even know what route I was on, and then describes how much better Machame is than Lemosho. “So much faster,” Deb says. “But not everyone can stomach ascending that quickly.”
“It’s stomaching the days without a shower that troubles me,” I say with a laugh, though I’m not entirely joking. This is going to besohard, and I’m furious at my dad for all of it.
I wonder what Rob would say if he could see me now, mad that Daddy made me go on this expensive once-in-a-lifetime trip, one I didn’t have to pay for. I picture him with his wide smile and his sun-warmed skin, raising a brow, amused even as he was about to set me straight.
He’d probably tell me I was turning into a not-nice version of Maren, and I guess he’d be right. I’ve always been a not-nice version of Maren, and perhaps that’s part of what offended me so greatly about Miller breaking up with my sister.
Because she’s a hundred times better than me, yet he still decided she wasn’t enough.
* * *
When I get backto the tent, I send out my last texts since I’m not sure what the internet situation will be going forward.
You know what would make this trip better? If someone hadn’t stolen Umbrellas in Paris from me.
Maren
That’s MY lipstick. But yes, I have heard a nice red lip helps with mountain climbing. It’s why so many people now survive Everest. Too bad you don’t have any left.
I text my mother, asking her to let the world know my dad was responsible if I die. She replies by saying she’d likely blame him whether or not it was true, and then asks if I can give her a call because she can’t remember the password to her checking account.
