I've heard it said that what defines you as a person isn't what happens to you, but how you respond to what happens to you. And it isn't until you've experienced stress of some magnitude that your true colors emerge.

Maybe you don't consider white water rafting in The Forks a high-stress situation - but I do, okay, so back off! I was skittish. Bothered. Agitated. The entire drive north I did my best to maintain moderate calm in front of my friends (who had rafted before and who all appeared disturbingly lackadaisical about the whole thing). But that morning, with the raft looming, my stomach was feeling some internal rapids of its own. This is the vision I had in my head:

I came to grips with the reality that I likely would be the one jerk in the boat to fall out, so I took copious mental notes on what to to when I fell out and donned my life vest, which would keep me afloat when I fell out. Then I climbed into that inflatable raft with the expression of a death-row inmate.

I was excited, too, I think, somewhere deep down. But that didn't mean I couldn't frantically search for an escape. I even scanned the raft for some sort of hole or tear (which would, oh so sadly, force our party to remain on land). Finding nothing, I resigned myself to fate, sat quietly and began saying goodbyes in my head.

Goodbye Michelle, you can have all of my hats (except for the cop one, which I never gave back to Victoria). Goodbye Victoria, you can have my collection of pub coasters (and your cop hat back). Sell everything else, but someone please take care of my couch, lovingly known as Cocoa Microfiber, Jr.

And off we went.

I didn't freak out or fall overboard. I didn't shriek my way down the river. I paddled when told and "woohooed" when appropriate. I didn't freeze with fear or hit anyone in the face with my paddle. I committed no rafting sins. And somehow, shockingly, I found myself having a grand time.

In fact, by the looks of this photo, I not only look like I'm enjoying myself (second from front with perma-grin), I almost look like I know what I'm doing. I look like a professional. I could BE a professional. I could raft in the Olympics! I'm the best rafter in the world!

The great thing about high-resolution pictures - aside from being evidence that you did, in fact, go rafting - is that they offer a brief snapshot of river truth. Take a close look at both sides of the boat. On my side (closest to the camera) we're smiling like chubby kids in front of a make-your-own sundae buffet. The far side looks, well, miserable.

It's almost disturbing how pleased we look.

Just as disturbing, how unhappy they look.

In even closer examination, Phil appears to be having a mid-raft crisis of some sort. Is he crying? Is he holding on?

I won't hold it against him - partly because I'd like to think I'm a nice person and partly because there's also this picture of me:

I'm not ashamed. When you're looking at a rapid like this and the guide tells you to hold on, you do it:

Here's the highlight reel, which shows why guides are guides and we're not.

Yep, we're hardcore rafters alright. Or something.