Yesterday I took Blondage, a fellow midwesterner and a recently transplanted co-worker, to a local vista. Stunning by any measure, Hurricane Ridge especially distinguishes itself by providing a spectacular view of the Olympic mountains without requiring that I walk farther than 100 feet. The only elevation gain is at the end of the visit, when I step into the Jeep. It's perfect.
Yesterday was the first time Blondage had experienced being hot at 4pm, then being in a snowstorm at 5pm. "Snow in June!" she squealed. I remember being similarly dazzled my first time. Snow in June was once inconceivable.
We pulled over to inspect the quickly accumulating snow. Gender stereotypes were quickly enforced. While she caught flakes on her tongue, I made a snowball. Aiming at her face, I fired it from 20 feet away. At the last second, my throw broke and impacted perfectly in the crotch of her jeans. It held there like velcro. Time stopped.
Do I apologize? Do I explain I was aiming for the face, instead? And does that make it better or worse?
Ultimately unable to admit that I'm that bad a shot, I decided to play it like the throw was on purpose. Because I'm just that cool, you know.