Some families watch festive movies on Christmas Eve, others go caroling. My family used to make gingerbread houses, but have since graduated to a more serious tradition that reminds us to be thankful for our life and safety. Hello, paint balling! It's always sounded painful and not altogether appealing, but somehow this year I let Rachel convince me to put on seven layers of sweatshirts and join in.
Once I was huddled behind a tree in the freezing cold and hardly able to see far enough to spot the opposing team from my foggy face shield, I remembered why I decided to sit out in the past. To add to my quickly increasing list of reasons playing was a bad choice, darling Rachel hit me twice on the inner thigh. The inner thigh! I still have huge black bruises, which are a very sexy addition to my white legs.
To be fair, I did get her back - in. the. face. So take that, paint balling. It didn't feel as satisfying as I'd hoped, but maybe I was just too cold to do cartwheels across the war zone. Or maybe I was about to pee my pants in fear. Okay, probably both.