Polar Plunge

I state and restate my non-Minnesotan-ness.  It probably gets annoying.  But there are certain elements of my life Up North that true Northerners cannot appreciate the foreignness of to someone born South of the Mason-Dixon. Walking on, much less jumping in, frozen bodies of water is one of these activities.

Lakes do not freeze in Arkansas. And even if they did, nobody would organize a fundraiser requiring otherwise reasonable persons to jump into said body of water.

But this is something Northern folk appreciate and, for some odd reason, encourage.  After discussing my jump at a Super Bowl party, one of the fellow revelers commented that his family had a tradition of jumping into a frozen lake up North after their Thanksgiving meal. Arkansans nap on the couch like normal folk.

All of this is somewhat tongue-and-cheek, because I rather enjoyed my first, and possibly not last, Polar Plunge.  I could say that it was due to the good cause it supported, but while I'm thrilled my little team raised $2000 for the Special Olympics, I honestly got a kick out of it because it was just so crazy.

5 degrees outside and roughly 800 people, many of whom were costumed, ignored reason, stood at the edge of a hole cut into a frozen lake, and jumped, screaming like a girl regardless of gender.  5 or so seconds of agony was coupled with a primal, desperate need to get out of that water and onto dry (albeit snowy) land. And then we all ran to various hot tubs and oohed and aahed at the best damn hot tub ever created.

If and when I am talked into repeating this experience, I will whine like any true Southerner should.  But deep down, I'm embracing the crazy.

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