So, wow. That was cold. My instantaneous response to jumping into a frozen lake was not for the faint of heart. Not only because jumping into a frozen lake is anything but good for one's poor, fragile heart, but because I have never spewed forth a longer string of four-letter words in my life.
And it wasn't even just four-letter words. We're talking full-on cussing. Son of a bitch is something like 11 words. Whore, another five. Dammit is six. JESUS CHRIST THAT'S FUCKING COLD is, I don't know, an entire sentence, for crying out loud.
It hurt. My entire body. Every inch of skin. My hair. My eyeballs. All frozen. Imagine playing a game of tackle football on a frozen lake, getting snow and ice in all your crevices. Down your pants, in your boots, up your nose.
Like that. Only imagine it 13 times worse. With less clothes on.
Now with all of that said, let's go back to the beginning. Before the drinking began...
First and foremost, I had to craft our team uniforms. High class is the only way to go, of course, so we bought $3 wife beaters and used a Sharpie to write not only the word "Brrrr!!" (with multiple 'r's and exclamation points) but also our names. People needed to know them. The beads and gold medals were solely for flair.
And I needed to intermittently play Guitar Hero. Motivation, you know. And I'm still good, don't worry. Never underestimate my abilities.
But on Saturday morning, intensity set in. It was game day. We needed our game faces. And a lot of booze. So at approximately 8:32, after hitting snooze a couple times, we awoke and headed straight to the fridge for some Mike's Hard Lemonade. And, of course, posed for the camera to strike fear into the souls of our opponents.
As you can see above, we found it necessary to pass along a 'fro wig, and also to follow the inspirational word of my Barack Obama Valentine's Day card, which I purchased for myself purely for enjoyment.
I don't know about you, but I truly feel the wig says it all. I think it says ferocious. Interpret it as you will.
Eventually the free booze ran out, so it was time to head to the bar. Mr. Robert's, it was called. More importantly, however, is that Mr. Robert's had a bloody mary for me. And a bartender willing to put up with a bunch of idiots whose sole purpose in life was to get drunk at that bar and proceed to jump in a lake. This, by the way, is what it looked like outside on Saturday morning. At least the sky was blue:
At the bar, we were all about drinking, convincing ourselves that we weren't going to die, and writing all over our bodies with marker. Because, why not, you know?
I chose to support Barack Obama, of course. Because it makes sense when I'm about to jump in a lake, and all. Why not write his name across my body? Exactly.
I am clearly not above sacrificing my body for the cause.
Eventually we were good and inebriated, took enough photos to successfully fill an entire blog post, and it was time to move on - to the lake.
So this is where it starts to get fuzzy, because it's when we actually jumped in. There are no pictures of the actual jump, but I can guarantee it'd look a lot like 10 people flailing like it was the end of the world. Lots of screaming. Lots of varied uses of particular swear words. Emphasis on the flailing. Little frozen arms all willy-nilly.
Afterward, we looked a lot like this, which, surprisingly, is how we looked before we jumped in, only this time we were numb from the brain down. And, you know, those smiles are fake:
At that point, it was time to do what we had done best that day - drink. After all, the cold water did nothing to sustain our happy, inebriated state. And so, we ended where we began - the bar.
And why the hell not? We just paid $25 to jump into a lake. We deserved it.