The Art of Being Not Hot: A Heroine’s Tale

There is something about rolling out of bed on a Saturday morning, in the same sweats from the night before, brushing my teeth and heading out the house that is completely liberating. Eh, who am I kidding? Sometimes, I reach for the pack of gum and skip the pit-stop and inevitable peek in the mirror altogether. Destination: grocery store. List: Fruit Loops, skim milk, and Tropicana Orange Juice (with some pulp). Reasons: My refrigerator consists of a bottle of ketchup, a six pack of club soda, and 3 month-old baby carrots that have actually gotten soft to the touch; and orange juice just doesn’t tastes as good after brushing. I live in a pretty small town and the people at my local market know me by face, if not by name. It’s not unusual to run into a high school classmate or one of my sister’s college-age friends home for the weekend. But I don’t care. I mean, I literally don’t care anytime before noon on a Saturday or Sunday morning. It’s not hot, but give me five minutes, a tube of lip gloss and a couple of brushes (one for my hair and one for my teeth) and it’s on like Donkey Kong. Just sayin…

I do, however, care about what I look like when I am training for my triathlon. Let’s be real. This triathlon has nothing to do with me living a healthy lifestyle. It has everything to do with looking like someone who does triathlons – minus the ridiculous she-man shoulders (because that’s definitely not hot). My outfits are always perfectly coordinated. Swim: I have a range of one piece competitive swim wear options in my arsenal, all picked to compliment my skin tone, and cut in an angle that makes my legs look longer and leaner than a few of my poorly chosen bikini bottoms. Bike: Well, I’ve already told you about the Holy Grail of Bicycles. Run: I never leave the house without considerable thought into which color and cut of Nike top will match with my Nike running pants of the day. I place my hair in a meticulous pony-tail that gives me the look of sporty youth. And then I’m off…

SWIM:
I had to wait until Memorial Day to start training for this portion of my race. I already belong to two gyms (one near my house, and one in my office building 30 miles away). There was no way I was going to spend one more dollar to have my hair attacked by a black woman’s kryptonite (chlorine) one minute earlier than necessary. I got to the pool the first day it opened. I made it there early enough to even out some tan lines, but I did not jump into the child-infested pool to swim laps during the day. I have it on good authority that [they] pee in the pool and the water does in fact, not turn green. Instead, I listened to their wretched little cries of “It’s not fair,” “It’s my turn,” “But you said!” …all while trying to catch up on my latest summer pool-side novel. Niños, what on earth do you have to complain about? When was the last time you paid a bill, made a life-changing decision or thought about what that ice-cream cone would do to your hips? Let me read my trash novel in peace!

So, I left the park, went for a run (more on this in a moment), and then headed back to the pool after the sun went down. When I arrived, most of the bottom feeders and trolls had gone home for the evening to watch cartoons, or do whatever it is that children do with their time. It had turned into a Michigan, ‘I’m on the lake without any sun and I’m freezing,’ kind of evening. I walked over to the deep-end which was completely empty and stood on the diving board, shivering, with goggles in hand. I turned to look at the 16 year old life guard and remembered when I was in that exact seat all those years ago, vigilantly protecting the pool from would-be-drowners, but mostly blowing my whistle to tell children to WALK, not run. My biggest concern was where I would go to college and what outfit I would wear Monday morning. (Well, that’s still a pretty big concern.) I kept staring at this guard, on the edge of the pool, armed with goose bumps, wondering what the hell happened to my youth when all of a sudden, a snot-nose 10 year old screams at me from across the pool,

“Are you going to jump in or what?!”

Is this a test? Lord, are you watching me? Does this kid want me to spank him with a Japanese Sword like the Black Mamba herself? Is he not aware of my general aversion to kids and know that I only need a reason, however slight, to go off? And then I jumped. Peer pressured by a child. Not hot.

BIKE
There actually aren’t enough words to describe the not-hotness of being a cyclist. In fact, I am still thinking about the Christian Louboutin’s and Jimmy Choos I could have rocked in place of owning a bike whose very existence it seems is to humiliate me. First of all, my hair is sort of my “thing.” And to have to hide it under a helmet, and emerge on the other end with sweaty helmet hair… well, there’s just not a happy ending in that scenario. Secondly, the $100 pants that the salesman told me ‘I just had to buy’ (yes, this could have been half a dress at Club Monaco), have padding in the butt. PADDING. IN. THE. BUTT. As if a woman, especially a Latina, needs any more padding in the butt. Lastly, I have clip in shoes, which means that I can’t just put my feet on the ground whenever I want. I actually have to practice clipping in and out. And in the course of “practicing,” I have literally fallen straight over on my bike. Multiple times. As in first I was upright, and then I was on the ground… with a bike between my legs. And though on each occasion, I was alone, without a soul to witness my clumsiness, I was deeply embarrassed for myself. It was as if my inner 13 year-old was having an out of body experience, convulsing with laughter at my own humiliation. Well, nobody likes 13 year old girls anyway! Not hot.

And now for the coup de grace. RUN
I broke my first bone when I was 7 years old. I was playing dodge ball. It was my pinky finger that is now permanently crooked. The culprit was a ridiculous boy who I must assume is either in jail or working the fry-bin at McDonalds (the natural fate for anyone who crosses me). Since then, I have broken my wrist on two occasions, my arm, my knee (in multiple places), my foot, my ankle (both sides), torn my meniscus and my MCL, and have had my body held together with pins, staples, screws, stitches, plaster and tape. I was in a wheel chair - twice. The first instance I graduated from a wheel chair and moved on up to a walker with a handicapped accessory to accommodate the shape of the cast on my broken arm. I am not a warrior. I am a klutz. I once had a physical in the navy and when the doctor told me to stand on one leg he asked if I was drunk when I could barely perform this task. He gave me a breathalyzer.

Last Saturday was one of the first hot days in the Big D. I spent most of the afternoon at the pool (hanging with the bottom feeders and trolls). The day was very sunny and exceptionally hot. I wanted to go for a run and threw on my black Nike running pants and decided I was going to wear my sports bra as my top. A white one. And since I am training to be a triathlete, and therefore can claim to have a traithlete body, I said, “You’re welcome, Grosse Pointe.”

I set out with my Sporty Spice pony-tail, and my jammin’-est tunes on my ipod-touch. Half a mile in, I passed my old high school and it was actually the beginning of Senior Prom. I saw the looks on the 18 year old boys’ faces as I passed and thought, ‘Still got it!’

Half a mile later, I was running on the lake. I got the gratuitous car honks and saw a couple of cars swerve, which made me feel just like Selma Hayek in Desperado except with a Mid-West accent (which is just as sexy as a Mexican accent, right?!) Err… :/

I was feeling really good about myself. My songs were pumping me up, I set a great pace, my lungs felt good, and oh! Is this a car full of boys about to check me out? Ye…

And then it happened.

As with all of my accidents, time was manipulated. That way, I could experience everything in slow motion, and be certain not to miss an ounce of humiliation. I could point out the name, make and license number of every car on the road in either direction, all of whose attention was solely focused on me and my impending disaster. I could see where birds were over head. I could point out squirrels in trees (laughing haughtily at me). And I could see the color of every sail in the water, whose captains were at that moment staring at my misfortune through binoculars and calling their friends to come and see. I knew what was coming and I could not do a thing to stop it. And while yes, I was running on a flat, smooth surface, my right foot caught on what could only be the ground… or my left foot.

So, at this point, my left foot was up in the air in full stride, my arms were thrown up in front of me, and my ridiculous smug look was replaced with the look of shock and fear and open mouthful of “Oh Shuga!” My momentum pushed me forward so it looked like I was sliding into first. And then I made contact with the ground. The stupid, nasty, dirty ground that penetrated through my running pants and gave fresh wounds to my already surgery scarred knee and scraped my shin to leave me with matching scars from that time that I tripped over a tree stump in 8th grade.

When it was over, it played like highlights from ESPN Sports Center in my head. I saw myself sliding in and out of the ground like I was being played on a big screen. I slid in, but before I touched the ground, someone would rewind me so that I was all of a sudden reversing, starting the scene over and over again while the sportscasters made fun and pointed out how my expression changed in every frame. Then, mercifully, the replay mode stopped, and I actually hit the ground. The gravel ingrained on my sweaty stomach and dirt stains on my white sports bra had me rethinking the ‘no shirt’ idea. And there I lay, on the side of Lake Shore Drive with every eye on me. Wounded. Stung. Humiliated. I got up as quickly as I could, but not before I saw everyone laughing at me, pointing and staring like that 13 year old girl nobody likes. Well, if this were “Carrie,” they’d all be locked in a gym with pigs' blood on their face. Then we’d see who got the last laugh.

With 3.5 miles left to go, each mile was slower than the one before and every minute was unbearable. The sun was beating down. I was dehydrated and felt like I was foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. I wiped my face and mouth with my hands and realized that my hands were bloody, and now my face and mouth were likely blood stained as well. I imagined myself as part of the Twilight Saga, no doubt evening a score with a certain hubris ridden squirrel. Then, as if the animal kingdom wanted to retaliate, I felt something knock me on the head. I looked around and I promise you, a gigantic bird, probably an eagle, but perhaps a Pterodactyl, hid behind the bushes. He dropped an acorn on my head and then hid from me! I finished my run, knowing that every person I passed was in on my secret, laughing. Not hot, people. Not hot.

Now, I realize that my account may have you thinking of me as the villain and not the heroine. I don’t automatically love children. I cannot be trusted with wild life. And I tend to make a few too many positive comments in my favor (which let’s face it, are all true). But this is my blog, so you have to cheer for me. It’s the rules…