My best friend got engaged last weekend. When she called me with the news, I was with a mutual friend. We shrieked into the phone like little girls waiting outside a Justin Bieber concert. Bar after bar we toasted our friend’s fortune, her gorgeous 3 kt. emerald cut diamond and the JD/MBA/Investment banker she reeled in using tips from Kanye’s workout plan.
This was not a decision either of them made lightly. The couple dated on and off for four years. While her beau is charming, fun and successful (albeit a little short for my taste), I have to admit that I was slightly surprised to hear the pure bliss and excitement she felt over her impending nuptials. I mean, my thought in her situation would have been, ‘Eh, four years. Might as well.’ But she talked about her fiancé with the fervor of an amazing first date or a sultry first kiss. I just don’t know that a four-year relationship and lifetime of monogamous sex will elicit as much genuine joy for me as it has for my dear friend.
I am an extremely passionate and emotional person. I experience life with the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. I have the greatest day of my life about once a week because I get ridiculously excited by minutia. Fortunately, I don’t experience lows nearly as often, but when they happen, I feel it burn with the flame of a thousand suns. Yes, I know that was horribly cheesy. But I need for you to understand that it is real.
I have the same intensity with my relationships which make for incredible first dates, but which has also contributed to ending every relationship I’ve ever been in.
I recently had a first date that was perfect – beginning to end. Great food, flowing wine, lips that made me want to jump across the table. We talked and laughed for hours until we actually closed the restaurant down. I got up to use the restroom. Knowing he would stare at me until I was out of view, I walked with a bounce in my 4-inch-heeled-step and a subtle switch in my tight-fitted-jeaned-hips. With all of my effort to be sexy and graceful (and for me this is never a good idea), my heel slipped and my foot flew straight into the air. I landed flat on my back. Not on my well cushioned bottom. On. My. Back. I was completely sprawled out on the floor in front of a man that I was so pleasantly smitten with. Still, it was one of the best dates either of us had ever been on (which, consequently, did end at my front door, thank you). Though we keep in moderate contact, there was not enough there to get us past the initial spark.
Conversely, I tried stand-up paddle boarding on let’s say a 10th date with Chaz Michael Michaels.* If on any day I tweeter between a hot dog and three cardio sessions and a celery stick, I landed on the hot dog side that day. Tyrone would have been ‘bout it – ‘bout it, but I imagined CMM was less so. By the way, I adamantly believe that you should be dating for a minimum of six months and have met each other’s parents, and maybe picked out a china pattern before you go on a date in a bikini. Even so, the sentiment was quite lovely. He knew I liked to be active and try new things, so this seemed like the perfect fit.
We met two of his friends (male and female) for our excursion by the lake. They both had fantastic athletic builds. But the other female in the group was wearing board shorts and a tank top that she had refused to take off. I, on the other hand, wore a floor length sarong that I could not paddle in. I begged her to wear her bikini, and honestly had visions of wrestling her to the ground and forcibly removing her shorts. But I don’t think there was any possible scenario where that would have ended well for me. Instead, I undressed and felt more self-conscious than anyone had ever felt in the history of self-consciousness. I mean, I am a triathlete, after all. And I have a self-proclaimed triathlete body, right? Well, a couple of pounds either way makes a huge difference. It was as if I could feel all three pair of eyes judging me, picking apart my imperfections and looking at my gargantuan misshapen body. My shoulders slumped inwards. My head fell downwards. And at that moment, I became instantly less attractive to myself and everyone else on that lake.
So I paddled, focused on my insecurities, irrationally afraid of falling in the water. Then my bikini top came undone. Like, first it was holding my junks together and then it was accessorizing my waistline. You may be wondering how things like this repeatedly happen to me. The answer is, I don’t know. I felt pure terror as I tried to figure out how I was going to re-tie my suit with an oversized paddle in my hand and remain upright -bonus points for not drawing attention to myself. To this day, I am hoping the reason I never heard about it was because they didn’t notice, and not because they were being kind to the whale on the paddleboard.
It is really easy for me to be super cool and confident in beginnings – no matter the situation. I have no stake, so it’s just not a big deal. But I either get bored (because a man is too eager, available or nice) or become so entranced (when it turns out that the man is neither too eager, available nor nice) that I psyche myself out. It is a game. It’s challenging, exciting, calculating and strategic. Despite my bouts of mischief, mayhem and slight insanity, I am still a first round draft pick. Of course, my issue is that while I know the rules in theory, it takes a while to get used to them in practice. Inevitably, I end up catching the ball just as I realize the game is soccer.
I do picture my future with a family – including a husband. But marriage actually terrifies me. It didn’t work out for me the first time and I don’t know if it was because it wasn’t the right person or because I’m just not cut out for that kind of commitment: the kind that comes after the butterflies; after the sultry kisses; after the quirks and insecurities are revealed. But seeing my best friend happier than she has ever been makes me want to believe that it is possible for me too. Maybe I could learn to kick a soccer ball, throw a football and hit a baseball in proper form. Or perhaps, like a man, I will figure out a way to change the game and play on my own turf. | Swim | Bike | Run |. Either way, I’m sure a 3 kt. emerald cut diamond would be a huge motivator for me to master any game I play. Matching earrings never hurt anyone either.
*http://lonelli.blogspot.com/2010/07/red-beans-and-rice-didnt-miss-her.html
Friday, April 29, 2011
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
OH THE HORROR
If you have a weak stomach, I’m going to suggest you stop reading. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’m going to tell you about the time I almost pooped my pants. There’s just not a happy ending here.
There are many benefits to exercise. One of which is maintaining a slammin’ body (just sayin’) while eating unbelievable amounts of food. Also, endorphins create a serious feeling of euphoria that is completely underrated. If people understood how amazing it felt to be in shape and have an incredible workout, along with the amazing stress coping capabilities, everyone would do it… all the time. But I have to admit that being an athlete can also be a completely humiliating, pride swallowing endeavor.
My little brother’s socially retarded friend hijacked my Facebook account last month. He posted “I pooped my pant today.” When my brother told me about this, he sounded so worried. He thought I was going to be really mad at the little mongoloid who couldn’t even use proper grammar to prank me. I laughed for three days straight. I mean, I hadn’t pooped my pants in years, if not decades. I’ve prided myself on that accomplishment for some time now. I might have reset the clock today.
I gave up dessert for Lent. One would assume that as a triathlete I don’t eat too much sugar. But I tend to stick to the four main food groups: candy, candy canes, candy corns and syrup. I’ve been supplementing my sugar fix with fresh homemade smoothies. It’s the only way I like fruit. My smoothies are as close to perfection as you can get. Yesterday, craving sweet gooey deliciousness that could have landed me in the fiery pits of hell, I doubled my smoothie intake rather than risk letting down J.C. Today I paid for it. San Pedro, please remember this on the day of my judgment.
Spring sprang in Grosse Pointe today. After months of long runs either inside on a treadmill or outside in snow, ice, freezing puddles, sideways rain and even hail – I got to run in 54 degree sunny weather. The promise of spring was so invigorating; I was running like a rock star. My body was doing everything right and I set a 9:00 mile pace going for ten miles. If you don’t think that pace is super fast I can guarantee no one likes you. Not even a little bit. It was the fastest pace I’d set for myself at that distance, but I’ve gotten pretty good at gauging how hard I can push my body and I knew I could do it. Well, until my body told me I couldn’t.
Three miles into the run I felt it, but at that point I was too committed. There was no turning back. I figured the sensation would go away. I run on Lakeshore Drive, a street lined with mansions. I had never thought about trespassing until today. I find it completely ridiculous that there is not one porta-potty or one public restroom on the highest traffic running path in Grosse Pointe. I blame the millionaires. I wanted to break into their house and show them exactly how I felt about it. Five miles in, I would have been happy leaving a surprise on their doorstep. I felt the cold sweat wash over my body. Six miles in, I called the cavalry. Doubling over in pain I howled a shriek of terror, fearing that the worst possible outcome had happened. There was no way I was going to make it home. My sister, laughing the entire way, came to get me.
Despite the short detour, I did finish all ten miles (though not at my rock star pace) and I can still honestly say I haven’t pooped my pant or pants in years. Decades even. I almost never run with my phone, but today was still cool enough to run with a vest. Next month that won’t be an option. I got lucky today and so did everyone else in Grosse Pointe. Lakeshore Drive residents, you’ve been warned. Just. Sayin.
There are many benefits to exercise. One of which is maintaining a slammin’ body (just sayin’) while eating unbelievable amounts of food. Also, endorphins create a serious feeling of euphoria that is completely underrated. If people understood how amazing it felt to be in shape and have an incredible workout, along with the amazing stress coping capabilities, everyone would do it… all the time. But I have to admit that being an athlete can also be a completely humiliating, pride swallowing endeavor.
My little brother’s socially retarded friend hijacked my Facebook account last month. He posted “I pooped my pant today.” When my brother told me about this, he sounded so worried. He thought I was going to be really mad at the little mongoloid who couldn’t even use proper grammar to prank me. I laughed for three days straight. I mean, I hadn’t pooped my pants in years, if not decades. I’ve prided myself on that accomplishment for some time now. I might have reset the clock today.
I gave up dessert for Lent. One would assume that as a triathlete I don’t eat too much sugar. But I tend to stick to the four main food groups: candy, candy canes, candy corns and syrup. I’ve been supplementing my sugar fix with fresh homemade smoothies. It’s the only way I like fruit. My smoothies are as close to perfection as you can get. Yesterday, craving sweet gooey deliciousness that could have landed me in the fiery pits of hell, I doubled my smoothie intake rather than risk letting down J.C. Today I paid for it. San Pedro, please remember this on the day of my judgment.
Spring sprang in Grosse Pointe today. After months of long runs either inside on a treadmill or outside in snow, ice, freezing puddles, sideways rain and even hail – I got to run in 54 degree sunny weather. The promise of spring was so invigorating; I was running like a rock star. My body was doing everything right and I set a 9:00 mile pace going for ten miles. If you don’t think that pace is super fast I can guarantee no one likes you. Not even a little bit. It was the fastest pace I’d set for myself at that distance, but I’ve gotten pretty good at gauging how hard I can push my body and I knew I could do it. Well, until my body told me I couldn’t.
Three miles into the run I felt it, but at that point I was too committed. There was no turning back. I figured the sensation would go away. I run on Lakeshore Drive, a street lined with mansions. I had never thought about trespassing until today. I find it completely ridiculous that there is not one porta-potty or one public restroom on the highest traffic running path in Grosse Pointe. I blame the millionaires. I wanted to break into their house and show them exactly how I felt about it. Five miles in, I would have been happy leaving a surprise on their doorstep. I felt the cold sweat wash over my body. Six miles in, I called the cavalry. Doubling over in pain I howled a shriek of terror, fearing that the worst possible outcome had happened. There was no way I was going to make it home. My sister, laughing the entire way, came to get me.
Despite the short detour, I did finish all ten miles (though not at my rock star pace) and I can still honestly say I haven’t pooped my pant or pants in years. Decades even. I almost never run with my phone, but today was still cool enough to run with a vest. Next month that won’t be an option. I got lucky today and so did everyone else in Grosse Pointe. Lakeshore Drive residents, you’ve been warned. Just. Sayin.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
PANAMA. PANAMA-HA.
The title really only makes sense if you sing it to Van Halen’s cover. Great song. But I think I like it because by birth, I am Panamanian. From Panama. Panama-ha. And while, yes, I was born in that country and was given the name “Gonzalez,” (the “Smith” of the little brown people who reside oh-so-South-of-the-Border) I am as American as they come. I immigrated to the States as a toddler. Despite my frequent travel abroad, my culture is American and my language is English. However, I do remain more than proficient in Pig Latin.
Last week I flew back to Panama with my family for a funeral. The trip was very stressful but at times inappropriately funny. Let me ‘splain…
It started on the flight to Panama. The flight attendant asked if there was a “Gonzalez” on board and half the plane raised their hands. It got me thinking, ‘Could we all fit in the back of a pick-up truck and if so, why did I leave my Sombrero at home?’ I think the funniest part about the plane ride was my people’s complete disregard for authority. As we were taxiing on the runway the members of the Gonzalez dynasty got up to move about the cabin. During the last ten seconds of the descent, as the plane was literally landing, someone grabbed his bags from the overhead bin and walked towards the exit. Hermano, Border Control only chases you on the way into the US. T.I.P. This is Panama. You’re all set. You can take your seat.
Stepping off the plane was an endless supply of candidates for TLC’s “What Not to Wear.” In Panama, mid-drifts are appropriate at any age. Grandmothers dress like hookers. The attendant at the rental car kiosk wore an evening gown. If you ever want to feel better about your life there are two places you should visit immediately: the DMV in Detroit (any time), or the Tocumen International Airport (PTY) after 9pm. Good times.
Driving in the middle of the night in Panama is like driving on Martin Luther King Blvd in Compton. Not a good idea, but if you must, keep the doors locked and don’t stop for anything. We made it to our hotel, but not before seeing what should have been 100 kilometers of earth’s most spectacular scenery littered with billboards of women with large phallic symbols in and around their mouths. How does one sell soda in Central America? Easy. Have a woman straddle an over-sized bottle of exploding Coca-Cola. If that doesn’t inspire thirst…
The next morning, true to my training regimen, I went to the hotel’s gym and rode a stationary bike. At 7 AM, the temperature had already risen to a humid 80 degrees. In a room with no air conditioning and only the faint breeze from my bike wheel, I left a puddle of sweat deep enough to swim in around my bicycle. Looking for disinfectant and a rag, I realized there were none of either. That meant that someone else had left the same puddle of sweat on the same bike that I had just ridden. Not wanting to throw up in my mouth, I ran outside, grateful for the Hepatitis B shot I got before going to Africa earlier this year. Dehydrated, I had a brief image of exploding Coca-Cola bottles and decided a hot shower with a Brillo pad and Ajax was more in line with my immediate needs.
I spent the morning poolside, reading Tom Clancy’s latest novel, wondering why I never realized my dream of becoming an international spy. I quickly accredited it to the same reason that Olympic glory eluded me in Vancouver last year. Simply put, my parents failed me.
I wanted to try out my super-spy skills by blending in with the natives. Though these natives happened to be in the land of my birth and therefore looked just like me, Operation PANAMANIAN was a complete disaster. I went to the hotel’s restaurant with my little brother. As we read the menu it was as if both of our IQs dropped by increments of 10 every second. They were in Spanish. Solomente en Espanol. Waitress, you speak no English? Muy bien. I’ll just speak very slowly and very loudly. That should make you understand my order. No? As a last ditch effort, I decided to play charades and mime what I wanted to eat. The look on her face told me that acting out the word “bratwurst” might have been less than appropriate. Come off it, sister. I’ve seen your billboards. The gig is up. Ultimately, the chef showed us some options and we pointed to what we wanted, at which time the wait staff got a nice little chuckle at our expense. Yeah?! Ow’s-hay our-ya ig-pay atin-lay?!
Though my undercover efforts needed serious work, the real anxiety came the day of the funeral. My Na, the woman who in every way that counted was a grandmother to me, passed away. If ever there was a saint in this world, it was she. Na embodied what it meant to love and give and sacrifice… and in such a funny way. She and my mother discussed her funeral arrangements before she passed, and she said, “Nobody’s going to fight. Everybody’s going to be too sad that I’m gone.” I still smile when I think about that.
Na’s funeral was a testament to her life. It was packed with friends, family, church members… and me. Sitting in the second row, directly behind my mother and Na’s grieving widower, I dressed the part: hair in a tight bun, Tiffany pearls, fitted black dress and sling-back peep-toe heels. But that was the extent of my role-play. An elderly woman in the parish led a hymn. It sounded like someone grabbed a cat by its tail and swung it in circles, occasionally banging it against the wall. I laughed out loud. Not too many ways you can out-do that one. But I certainly tried.
During the homily, the priest was going back and forth between Spanish and English. The lull of the priest’s words, the smell of the warm breeze, the somberness of the occasion… it took its toll. My head began to bob up and down, completely out of my control until I woke and found a spool of saliva stretching from my mouth to my lap. This, of course, completed the look of understated elegance I was going for with my tight bun and Tiffany pearls. But true to Na’s word, everyone was too sad to fight. I didn’t get one sideways glance from the priest or my mother’s evil eye of caution that she has perfected these many years. My ill-timed laughter and drool were left unmentioned, if not unnoticed.
I love adventure and I love to travel. But this was one trip I was happy to see end. Not just for the comfort of the freezing cold bike lab at Fraser, or endless supply of disinfectant wipes at my gym; but to escape a reality that I don’t want to think about. If not for my mother’s incredible bravery, inspired in no small part by Na’s help, I would not have grown up in the greatest country in the world. It could have been me on those billboards with a banana shoved halfway down my mouth or worse, wearing an evening gown to work at the airport. But most of all, I wanted the trip to end so I could stop remembering my reason for being there. I wanted to escape the reality of knowing that I will never hear Na’s voice again or take in her scent, or taste her incredible cooking. I have no doubt that she is in heaven, without so much as a layover in purgatory. But from time to time I will pretend that she is healthy and vibrant enjoying sunny 90-degree days in our homeland, Panama. Panama-ha.
Last week I flew back to Panama with my family for a funeral. The trip was very stressful but at times inappropriately funny. Let me ‘splain…
It started on the flight to Panama. The flight attendant asked if there was a “Gonzalez” on board and half the plane raised their hands. It got me thinking, ‘Could we all fit in the back of a pick-up truck and if so, why did I leave my Sombrero at home?’ I think the funniest part about the plane ride was my people’s complete disregard for authority. As we were taxiing on the runway the members of the Gonzalez dynasty got up to move about the cabin. During the last ten seconds of the descent, as the plane was literally landing, someone grabbed his bags from the overhead bin and walked towards the exit. Hermano, Border Control only chases you on the way into the US. T.I.P. This is Panama. You’re all set. You can take your seat.
Stepping off the plane was an endless supply of candidates for TLC’s “What Not to Wear.” In Panama, mid-drifts are appropriate at any age. Grandmothers dress like hookers. The attendant at the rental car kiosk wore an evening gown. If you ever want to feel better about your life there are two places you should visit immediately: the DMV in Detroit (any time), or the Tocumen International Airport (PTY) after 9pm. Good times.
Driving in the middle of the night in Panama is like driving on Martin Luther King Blvd in Compton. Not a good idea, but if you must, keep the doors locked and don’t stop for anything. We made it to our hotel, but not before seeing what should have been 100 kilometers of earth’s most spectacular scenery littered with billboards of women with large phallic symbols in and around their mouths. How does one sell soda in Central America? Easy. Have a woman straddle an over-sized bottle of exploding Coca-Cola. If that doesn’t inspire thirst…
The next morning, true to my training regimen, I went to the hotel’s gym and rode a stationary bike. At 7 AM, the temperature had already risen to a humid 80 degrees. In a room with no air conditioning and only the faint breeze from my bike wheel, I left a puddle of sweat deep enough to swim in around my bicycle. Looking for disinfectant and a rag, I realized there were none of either. That meant that someone else had left the same puddle of sweat on the same bike that I had just ridden. Not wanting to throw up in my mouth, I ran outside, grateful for the Hepatitis B shot I got before going to Africa earlier this year. Dehydrated, I had a brief image of exploding Coca-Cola bottles and decided a hot shower with a Brillo pad and Ajax was more in line with my immediate needs.
I spent the morning poolside, reading Tom Clancy’s latest novel, wondering why I never realized my dream of becoming an international spy. I quickly accredited it to the same reason that Olympic glory eluded me in Vancouver last year. Simply put, my parents failed me.
I wanted to try out my super-spy skills by blending in with the natives. Though these natives happened to be in the land of my birth and therefore looked just like me, Operation PANAMANIAN was a complete disaster. I went to the hotel’s restaurant with my little brother. As we read the menu it was as if both of our IQs dropped by increments of 10 every second. They were in Spanish. Solomente en Espanol. Waitress, you speak no English? Muy bien. I’ll just speak very slowly and very loudly. That should make you understand my order. No? As a last ditch effort, I decided to play charades and mime what I wanted to eat. The look on her face told me that acting out the word “bratwurst” might have been less than appropriate. Come off it, sister. I’ve seen your billboards. The gig is up. Ultimately, the chef showed us some options and we pointed to what we wanted, at which time the wait staff got a nice little chuckle at our expense. Yeah?! Ow’s-hay our-ya ig-pay atin-lay?!
Though my undercover efforts needed serious work, the real anxiety came the day of the funeral. My Na, the woman who in every way that counted was a grandmother to me, passed away. If ever there was a saint in this world, it was she. Na embodied what it meant to love and give and sacrifice… and in such a funny way. She and my mother discussed her funeral arrangements before she passed, and she said, “Nobody’s going to fight. Everybody’s going to be too sad that I’m gone.” I still smile when I think about that.
Na’s funeral was a testament to her life. It was packed with friends, family, church members… and me. Sitting in the second row, directly behind my mother and Na’s grieving widower, I dressed the part: hair in a tight bun, Tiffany pearls, fitted black dress and sling-back peep-toe heels. But that was the extent of my role-play. An elderly woman in the parish led a hymn. It sounded like someone grabbed a cat by its tail and swung it in circles, occasionally banging it against the wall. I laughed out loud. Not too many ways you can out-do that one. But I certainly tried.
During the homily, the priest was going back and forth between Spanish and English. The lull of the priest’s words, the smell of the warm breeze, the somberness of the occasion… it took its toll. My head began to bob up and down, completely out of my control until I woke and found a spool of saliva stretching from my mouth to my lap. This, of course, completed the look of understated elegance I was going for with my tight bun and Tiffany pearls. But true to Na’s word, everyone was too sad to fight. I didn’t get one sideways glance from the priest or my mother’s evil eye of caution that she has perfected these many years. My ill-timed laughter and drool were left unmentioned, if not unnoticed.
I love adventure and I love to travel. But this was one trip I was happy to see end. Not just for the comfort of the freezing cold bike lab at Fraser, or endless supply of disinfectant wipes at my gym; but to escape a reality that I don’t want to think about. If not for my mother’s incredible bravery, inspired in no small part by Na’s help, I would not have grown up in the greatest country in the world. It could have been me on those billboards with a banana shoved halfway down my mouth or worse, wearing an evening gown to work at the airport. But most of all, I wanted the trip to end so I could stop remembering my reason for being there. I wanted to escape the reality of knowing that I will never hear Na’s voice again or take in her scent, or taste her incredible cooking. I have no doubt that she is in heaven, without so much as a layover in purgatory. But from time to time I will pretend that she is healthy and vibrant enjoying sunny 90-degree days in our homeland, Panama. Panama-ha.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
THE CRITIC
It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.
-Theodore Roosevelt
I am my own worst critic. I don’t believe in A’s for effort. That’s not how the real world works. Elementary schools should get rid of this.
I didn’t finish my race today and I am angry, disappointed and humiliated.
My very first triathlon was six months ago. Perhaps Ironman level may have been a bit over-zealous. Yes, I know that most people will never try an Ironman. And yes, I know that I raced in horrible conditions that made even the Ironman veterans and pros struggle. But I am still angry, disappointed and humiliated.
I swam 1.2 miles in a freezing ocean with strong currents and an undertow. I didn’t swim 50 meters before I thought about quitting. I finished with 22 minutes to spare. I thought the worst was over.
I biked 28 miles up a continuous hill that was steeper than anything I had ever trained on. Racing against gusting winds and freezing cold rain, I turned around and fought my way back down the hill, with sharp turns at speeds I can only imagine (my bike computer broke before my race). There was a 4:05 bike cut off. I finished in 4:20. Not even close.
I biked as hard as I could, as fast as I could and didn’t leave anything behind. It was the absolute best I could do. But today, my best wasn’t good enough.
When I made it back to Transition, I was not allowed to participate in the run. This was the most disappointing part. Despite not being able to reach the time limits, I still wanted the opportunity to finish the race.
I am an athlete and by nature very competitive. I had no intention of traveling across the world to “give it my best shot.” I came here for a medal. The fact that I didn’t get one makes me angry. Disappointed. Humiliated.
Of all six seasons of Sex and the City, my favorite episode was the one where Carrie Bradshaw was asked to model in a fashion show. The series’ heroine was the queen of high heels. But in this episode she slipped on the runway and landed on her face. It was humiliating to watch. Heidi Klum stepped over her lifeless body. She was fashion road kill.
Carrie had two choices: slink away back stage and cry, or pick herself up and strut down the runway. Well, it’s Hollywood, so I’ll let you guess the ending. But in reality, this is what heroines do. They pick themselves up. And if nothing else, I am the heroine of my own life.
I started triathlons to be a skinny bitch and to stay in shape. Well, I am a skinny bitch. And despite not being able to complete this race, I am in the best shape of my life. But beyond the physical benefits, since I started competing in triathlons, I really have become a better person. I push myself beyond my limits and for that I am incredibly proud.
The critic in me is angry that I didn’t finish today; disappointed with my failure; and humiliated that everyone knows. But more than all of the negative feelings I have about the race, I am thankful that I didn’t drown in the Indian Ocean. I am beyond ecstatic that while speeding down 28 miles of steep hills with sharp turns, wearing nothing but a sports bra and the daisy-est of Daisy Dukes, that I, the clumsiest of silly girls, did not fall and break a bone or rip off my skin. I am grateful for the experience of racing with the best athletes in the world and the opportunity to do so on a different continent than my own.
I am determined to pick myself up. I am driven to do better. And I am in training. Ironman 70.3 South Africa 2012, I will see you next year. I am back in the arena.
-Theodore Roosevelt
I am my own worst critic. I don’t believe in A’s for effort. That’s not how the real world works. Elementary schools should get rid of this.
I didn’t finish my race today and I am angry, disappointed and humiliated.
My very first triathlon was six months ago. Perhaps Ironman level may have been a bit over-zealous. Yes, I know that most people will never try an Ironman. And yes, I know that I raced in horrible conditions that made even the Ironman veterans and pros struggle. But I am still angry, disappointed and humiliated.
I swam 1.2 miles in a freezing ocean with strong currents and an undertow. I didn’t swim 50 meters before I thought about quitting. I finished with 22 minutes to spare. I thought the worst was over.
I biked 28 miles up a continuous hill that was steeper than anything I had ever trained on. Racing against gusting winds and freezing cold rain, I turned around and fought my way back down the hill, with sharp turns at speeds I can only imagine (my bike computer broke before my race). There was a 4:05 bike cut off. I finished in 4:20. Not even close.
I biked as hard as I could, as fast as I could and didn’t leave anything behind. It was the absolute best I could do. But today, my best wasn’t good enough.
When I made it back to Transition, I was not allowed to participate in the run. This was the most disappointing part. Despite not being able to reach the time limits, I still wanted the opportunity to finish the race.
I am an athlete and by nature very competitive. I had no intention of traveling across the world to “give it my best shot.” I came here for a medal. The fact that I didn’t get one makes me angry. Disappointed. Humiliated.
Of all six seasons of Sex and the City, my favorite episode was the one where Carrie Bradshaw was asked to model in a fashion show. The series’ heroine was the queen of high heels. But in this episode she slipped on the runway and landed on her face. It was humiliating to watch. Heidi Klum stepped over her lifeless body. She was fashion road kill.
Carrie had two choices: slink away back stage and cry, or pick herself up and strut down the runway. Well, it’s Hollywood, so I’ll let you guess the ending. But in reality, this is what heroines do. They pick themselves up. And if nothing else, I am the heroine of my own life.
I started triathlons to be a skinny bitch and to stay in shape. Well, I am a skinny bitch. And despite not being able to complete this race, I am in the best shape of my life. But beyond the physical benefits, since I started competing in triathlons, I really have become a better person. I push myself beyond my limits and for that I am incredibly proud.
The critic in me is angry that I didn’t finish today; disappointed with my failure; and humiliated that everyone knows. But more than all of the negative feelings I have about the race, I am thankful that I didn’t drown in the Indian Ocean. I am beyond ecstatic that while speeding down 28 miles of steep hills with sharp turns, wearing nothing but a sports bra and the daisy-est of Daisy Dukes, that I, the clumsiest of silly girls, did not fall and break a bone or rip off my skin. I am grateful for the experience of racing with the best athletes in the world and the opportunity to do so on a different continent than my own.
I am determined to pick myself up. I am driven to do better. And I am in training. Ironman 70.3 South Africa 2012, I will see you next year. I am back in the arena.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
INTERESTING
My pheromones affect people miles away – in a mild but measurable way. My blood smells like perfume. My personality is so magnetic I can’t even carry credit cards.
I love music and I love to dance. I don’t mean that I enjoy these things. I mean that I love them. Music and dancing fill my heart with a joy that makes everything feel right in the world. Often, when I’m listening to music I imagine myself being a spectacular dancer – complete with five inch stilettos and a sequin dress short enough to be mistaken for a top (if you didn’t know me better). I always imagine myself in the trendiest Miami nightclub. A tall Latin stranger grabs me and spins me onto the dance floor. He speaks no English. I speak what amounts to no Spanish. But dancing – fabulous, choreographed, expert level salsa dancing – is the only language we need.
What a loser! If I keep my mouth shut and stand in the corner with a drink in hand, I can pass for the sexy mysterious girl that everyone wants to get to know. But that has never happened to me a day in my life. For starters, I am physically unable to keep my mouth shut for any amount of time; but also because I am the world’s biggest goof ball. I crack incredibly corny jokes. I do the robot on the dance floor. And my face is like an open book – you can tell exactly what I’m thinking the moment I think it. Not terribly interesting.
Today is my birthday. People often ask if I dislike having been born the day after Christmas. Though I have been known to receive combination birthday/Christmas presents, overall I think my birthday (like Charlie’s review of Maverick's performance) is right-on. Clearly, Jesus loves me best. And in addition to not having to work or go to school on this day, being born at the end of the year helps me to reflect on the year I’ve completed and plan for the year ahead. I don’t believe in New Year’s resolutions. Besides, I’ve never heard of one that didn’t involve weight loss. (Side bar: You don’t need January 1st to start a diet or hit the gym. Just Do It.) Instead, I focus on what will make me a more interesting person. What, if anything, will balance out the fact that I am the world’s most incredible dork?
Last year that thing was triathlons. The sport has changed my life. And it has given me a head start on Operation Interesting 2011. The first time I travel to the African continent will be to race in my first Half Ironman. I leave in 24 days and can hardly contain my excitement. But even less interesting than being a dork would be becoming a one-dimensional person. While I love triathlons – racing and training – I don’t want my life to be consumed by them. This year, while I will continue with my newfound love, I will also find a new accomplishment to help me become extraordinary. With a last name like Gonzalez I should consider salsa lessons so that I can stop doing the robot on the dance floor. OK, I won’t go that far – it is my signature move. But maybe I will be able to walk into a dance club in Havana, summon the attention of the most interesting man in the room, and in five inch heels and ridiculously short and flowy white dress, dance the dance of love. (While the details of my fantasy change, the short dress and high heels remain constant.)
I am serious when I say that I don’t make New Year's resolutions. I don’t know that I will ever be an international salsa star - beyond my own imagination. Right now I am focused on surviving my Half Ironman, January 23rd in South Africa: 1.2 miles swimming, 56 miles biking, 13.1 miles running. However, I do know that next year, as I reflect on my life and my impending 22nd birthday, I will remain the silliest girl that ever walked the planet, but I will also be a little more interesting.
I love music and I love to dance. I don’t mean that I enjoy these things. I mean that I love them. Music and dancing fill my heart with a joy that makes everything feel right in the world. Often, when I’m listening to music I imagine myself being a spectacular dancer – complete with five inch stilettos and a sequin dress short enough to be mistaken for a top (if you didn’t know me better). I always imagine myself in the trendiest Miami nightclub. A tall Latin stranger grabs me and spins me onto the dance floor. He speaks no English. I speak what amounts to no Spanish. But dancing – fabulous, choreographed, expert level salsa dancing – is the only language we need.
What a loser! If I keep my mouth shut and stand in the corner with a drink in hand, I can pass for the sexy mysterious girl that everyone wants to get to know. But that has never happened to me a day in my life. For starters, I am physically unable to keep my mouth shut for any amount of time; but also because I am the world’s biggest goof ball. I crack incredibly corny jokes. I do the robot on the dance floor. And my face is like an open book – you can tell exactly what I’m thinking the moment I think it. Not terribly interesting.
Today is my birthday. People often ask if I dislike having been born the day after Christmas. Though I have been known to receive combination birthday/Christmas presents, overall I think my birthday (like Charlie’s review of Maverick's performance) is right-on. Clearly, Jesus loves me best. And in addition to not having to work or go to school on this day, being born at the end of the year helps me to reflect on the year I’ve completed and plan for the year ahead. I don’t believe in New Year’s resolutions. Besides, I’ve never heard of one that didn’t involve weight loss. (Side bar: You don’t need January 1st to start a diet or hit the gym. Just Do It.) Instead, I focus on what will make me a more interesting person. What, if anything, will balance out the fact that I am the world’s most incredible dork?
Last year that thing was triathlons. The sport has changed my life. And it has given me a head start on Operation Interesting 2011. The first time I travel to the African continent will be to race in my first Half Ironman. I leave in 24 days and can hardly contain my excitement. But even less interesting than being a dork would be becoming a one-dimensional person. While I love triathlons – racing and training – I don’t want my life to be consumed by them. This year, while I will continue with my newfound love, I will also find a new accomplishment to help me become extraordinary. With a last name like Gonzalez I should consider salsa lessons so that I can stop doing the robot on the dance floor. OK, I won’t go that far – it is my signature move. But maybe I will be able to walk into a dance club in Havana, summon the attention of the most interesting man in the room, and in five inch heels and ridiculously short and flowy white dress, dance the dance of love. (While the details of my fantasy change, the short dress and high heels remain constant.)
I am serious when I say that I don’t make New Year's resolutions. I don’t know that I will ever be an international salsa star - beyond my own imagination. Right now I am focused on surviving my Half Ironman, January 23rd in South Africa: 1.2 miles swimming, 56 miles biking, 13.1 miles running. However, I do know that next year, as I reflect on my life and my impending 22nd birthday, I will remain the silliest girl that ever walked the planet, but I will also be a little more interesting.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
A CHRISTMAS STORY
“They” say things come in threes. Among them are Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Of course this is the most magnificent Trinity of all. But my recent non-celestial threesome was far from being in the vicinity of magnificent. Sorry fellas. It ain’t that kinda story…
One.
I was recently in a car accident. I walked away, trembling and hysterical, with barely a scratch on me. My car, much like a reliable friend, had been with me for a third of my life. It was not so lucky.
Two.
Last week I stopped seeing a man that I had hoped to share a future.
Three.
A few days ago I dropped my iPhone and watched it shatter into a thousand pieces.
This is life. Sometimes it really sucks. It can make you walk around in sweat pants for days in a row eating ice cream by the pint, in bed, surrounded by used Kleenex, watching romantic comedies and feeling like there is a deep pit inside your stomach that actually leads to a black hole. I mean, that’s never happened to me. I am way too awesome. I’m obviously talking about lesser people, far more susceptible to un-awesomeness than me.
So, I’ve actually been in several car accidents. It compliments my clumsy nature, I think. But this was the first accident that I actually feared for my life. It was a dark and stormy night (honestly, all good stories should start that way), the first real snowstorm of the season. I was on the highway and saw break lights in front of me. I quickly slowed down, knowing that the road was icy. In my rear view mirror I saw a pick up truck speeding towards me. My body tensed and my knuckles turned white gripping the steering wheel, preparing for the inevitable. The sound of speeding metal colliding, the gust of freezing cold wind when my rear windows shattered, the impact of my head hitting the roof, and the trickling crimson blood on my hand – it was all so horrific. The crash threw my phone and I couldn’t find it. I took my seatbelt off to look around and noticed a car doing doughnuts on the road, heading straight for me. Screaming, I tried to put my seatbelt back on, but it was stuck. In that moment, I literally thought my life was over. I didn’t have any flashes of loved ones or of cherished memories. I felt no regrets on the cusp of leaving this world. I didn’t even see a light or a tunnel. Instead, I sat frozen clutching a malfunctioning seatbelt and feeling two of the most basic human emotions: pure terror and an overwhelming desire to live.
You know how the story ends. I lived and was truly grateful to my Creator for continued life, for the ability to walk, to see, speak, and feel. But instead of walking away with new super-hero powers, like the ability to control the weather or be a really amazing graphic designer who can draw the future (as is customary with all near death experiences), I was left with a totaled car, insurance hassles and a case of “Why Me.”
With the exception of being unnaturally awesome (as I mentioned earlier), I really am like every other silly girl in America. When I meet a man that I click with, I imagine our futures together. How long will we date before we get married? How many children will we have? Will we have a church wedding or get married in the Caribbean? What will my dress look like?! Ahh… think I’m crazy if you will, but the truth is once I cannot see myself marrying a man, I lose interest in him. That is the price of crazy, I guess. When I realized that I had no future with Chaz Michael Michaels, it was like pieces of my life were being taken away from me. Three boys and a girl – vanished; summer boat trips – gone; New Years Eve date – sayonara; and of course the company of someone I had grown to care for – well, it was all over. While the relationship wasn’t serious, it was serious enough for me to feel hurt at its ending. Facebook doesn’t make it any easier. Every day, all day its pictures of people’s adorable children with stupid looks of unconditional love plastered on their faces. And incredibly obnoxious postings like:
“It ALL means nothing by yourself...having that special someone to share it ALL with, does something to your soul. Happy Holidays ♥ ♥ ♥”
Really? I mean, I should start driving towards the cliff, since my life apparently means nothing and my soul is unfulfilled. Less obnoxious would be my response:
“I eat 3,500 calories a day and I’m a size 4. And gorgeous. And the only ass I wiped today was my own.”
Finally, when I shattered my phone it all began to feel unbearable. “Why Me?”
The next day when I walked into the Apple Store I was prepared to drop up to $400 to repair or replace my phone. I must have looked desperately pathetic because the sales rep said it seemed like the universe was out of balance for me and he replaced my phone… for free. I believe that the Lord never gives you more than you can handle. In that moment, again born from misfortune, I felt grateful to my Creator. Not just over $400, though that amount of money means more to me now than it ever has. I was grateful for a win, or at least not one more loss.
All around us is suffering. Though so many others have it far worse, it is often little consolation for our own suffering. “Why Me.” In truth, I cannot begin to count my blessings. As we approach the celebration of Christ’s birth, it seems that I am becoming more aware of His presence in my life. As unworthy as I am, I continue to praise His name and acknowledge my gifts… among which are a brand new triathlete rear-end that even J-Lo would envy (it really is quite spectacular); incredible resilience – even if it does seem that I could use a little more time to recover between hits lately; and my gift for writing which had seemed to all but disappear. It’s return, much like a super-human mutant power, was sparked by a trilogy of misfortunes. So, thanks JC. I owe you. But maybe the next time I get writer’s block, You send a writer’s clinic pamphlet instead?
One.
I was recently in a car accident. I walked away, trembling and hysterical, with barely a scratch on me. My car, much like a reliable friend, had been with me for a third of my life. It was not so lucky.
Two.
Last week I stopped seeing a man that I had hoped to share a future.
Three.
A few days ago I dropped my iPhone and watched it shatter into a thousand pieces.
This is life. Sometimes it really sucks. It can make you walk around in sweat pants for days in a row eating ice cream by the pint, in bed, surrounded by used Kleenex, watching romantic comedies and feeling like there is a deep pit inside your stomach that actually leads to a black hole. I mean, that’s never happened to me. I am way too awesome. I’m obviously talking about lesser people, far more susceptible to un-awesomeness than me.
So, I’ve actually been in several car accidents. It compliments my clumsy nature, I think. But this was the first accident that I actually feared for my life. It was a dark and stormy night (honestly, all good stories should start that way), the first real snowstorm of the season. I was on the highway and saw break lights in front of me. I quickly slowed down, knowing that the road was icy. In my rear view mirror I saw a pick up truck speeding towards me. My body tensed and my knuckles turned white gripping the steering wheel, preparing for the inevitable. The sound of speeding metal colliding, the gust of freezing cold wind when my rear windows shattered, the impact of my head hitting the roof, and the trickling crimson blood on my hand – it was all so horrific. The crash threw my phone and I couldn’t find it. I took my seatbelt off to look around and noticed a car doing doughnuts on the road, heading straight for me. Screaming, I tried to put my seatbelt back on, but it was stuck. In that moment, I literally thought my life was over. I didn’t have any flashes of loved ones or of cherished memories. I felt no regrets on the cusp of leaving this world. I didn’t even see a light or a tunnel. Instead, I sat frozen clutching a malfunctioning seatbelt and feeling two of the most basic human emotions: pure terror and an overwhelming desire to live.
You know how the story ends. I lived and was truly grateful to my Creator for continued life, for the ability to walk, to see, speak, and feel. But instead of walking away with new super-hero powers, like the ability to control the weather or be a really amazing graphic designer who can draw the future (as is customary with all near death experiences), I was left with a totaled car, insurance hassles and a case of “Why Me.”
With the exception of being unnaturally awesome (as I mentioned earlier), I really am like every other silly girl in America. When I meet a man that I click with, I imagine our futures together. How long will we date before we get married? How many children will we have? Will we have a church wedding or get married in the Caribbean? What will my dress look like?! Ahh… think I’m crazy if you will, but the truth is once I cannot see myself marrying a man, I lose interest in him. That is the price of crazy, I guess. When I realized that I had no future with Chaz Michael Michaels, it was like pieces of my life were being taken away from me. Three boys and a girl – vanished; summer boat trips – gone; New Years Eve date – sayonara; and of course the company of someone I had grown to care for – well, it was all over. While the relationship wasn’t serious, it was serious enough for me to feel hurt at its ending. Facebook doesn’t make it any easier. Every day, all day its pictures of people’s adorable children with stupid looks of unconditional love plastered on their faces. And incredibly obnoxious postings like:
“It ALL means nothing by yourself...having that special someone to share it ALL with, does something to your soul. Happy Holidays ♥ ♥ ♥”
Really? I mean, I should start driving towards the cliff, since my life apparently means nothing and my soul is unfulfilled. Less obnoxious would be my response:
“I eat 3,500 calories a day and I’m a size 4. And gorgeous. And the only ass I wiped today was my own.”
Finally, when I shattered my phone it all began to feel unbearable. “Why Me?”
The next day when I walked into the Apple Store I was prepared to drop up to $400 to repair or replace my phone. I must have looked desperately pathetic because the sales rep said it seemed like the universe was out of balance for me and he replaced my phone… for free. I believe that the Lord never gives you more than you can handle. In that moment, again born from misfortune, I felt grateful to my Creator. Not just over $400, though that amount of money means more to me now than it ever has. I was grateful for a win, or at least not one more loss.
All around us is suffering. Though so many others have it far worse, it is often little consolation for our own suffering. “Why Me.” In truth, I cannot begin to count my blessings. As we approach the celebration of Christ’s birth, it seems that I am becoming more aware of His presence in my life. As unworthy as I am, I continue to praise His name and acknowledge my gifts… among which are a brand new triathlete rear-end that even J-Lo would envy (it really is quite spectacular); incredible resilience – even if it does seem that I could use a little more time to recover between hits lately; and my gift for writing which had seemed to all but disappear. It’s return, much like a super-human mutant power, was sparked by a trilogy of misfortunes. So, thanks JC. I owe you. But maybe the next time I get writer’s block, You send a writer’s clinic pamphlet instead?
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
FAST TIMES AT GROSSE POINTE SOUTH HIGH
“I get older, they stay the same age.”
I recently heard a Justin Bieber song. He was asking a girl to love him. I’m not gonna lie. I like the song. I think it’s kinda hot, actually. No, I don’t want to be the one to love Justin Bieber, but maybe we could just hold hands?
I swim at 5AM three times a week at my old high school. I do drills for two hours. There’s no music in the water, so I usually have the last song I heard in the car stuck in my head for most of practice. This morning it was Taio Cruz’ Dynamite. I never liked that song until it was made famous by Back Shaft Productions (the Naval Academy’s fictional production studio) for a Spirit Spot against Air Force.* Do you have any idea what it’s like to sing one verse to yourself for two hours, especially when the words are all wrong? As it turns out, there is no mention of Galileo in that song at all. When I’m not singing to myself I try to keep track of my laps and repetitions. In my head it goes something like 25-25-25... FLIP, 50-50-50… FLIP… It’s not a very entertaining sport.
Swimming at my Alma Mater is not all bad, though. For starters, I have killer arms, shoulder and back muscles now. Really, not too shabby at all if I do say so myself... But most of all, there’s Ben, one of my three swim coaches. Ben is an All American. Some call it stalking, but I call it a bit of “investigative reporting.” Ben lettered in varsity sports nine times at the University of Michigan. Swimming and baseball. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to be a varsity athlete in college, let alone to be one in two different sports?
On the weeks when Ben is not coaching, he often joins us for a swim. When he walks into the pool I can’t help but stop and stare. It’s like he walks in slow motion and I hear “Oh Yeah” from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.** He sets his things down, then takes his clothes off and I swear the water gets a little warmer. I was a pretty girl in high school. Never had issues with weight, acne, braces, oily hair or glasses. But when I stare at him, with his perfectly chiseled 6”3, 190 pound frame (“investigative reporting!”), I feel like I have all of those issues at once; giggling coyly when he smiles at me while his tooth sparkles like an Orbitz commercial. I want to wrap him up and take him home to cook for me and perform… other household duties.
So, why am I not planning my wedding at the Plaza this June (which I have on reserve every year, for the next ten years - I mean, a girl can never be too prepared.)? Well, Ben is a child. Or close enough. He graduated from college in 2008. Ben is 24. Despite the half your age plus seven rule, I still feel like a naughty old cougar when I think of him. I’m just three cats, a girdle and a pair of Lycra cheetah patterned pants away from sealing the deal.
I am embarrassed and also a little hesitant to admit that I found myself “observing” one of the male high school swimmers. I didn’t realize he was a student until he started swimming with the rest of the high school team. He was swimming in the lane closest to the adults and he had a five o’clock shadow! How was I supposed to know that he was a child? These people should come stamped with gigantic tattoos. “I AM A MINOR,” and it should be printed all over their bodies! What is wrong with me?!
I have no interest in dating younger men, and not just because it would land me on a list that keeps me 100 yards away from schools and Ice Cream trucks. I am actually attracted to older men. Looks have little bearing on my choice for a partner. I care more about someone’s ability to make me laugh, challenge me, grow with me and ultimately provide for a family than I do about the size of his biceps or a pretty face. But men are different. They don’t think like normal people. They are visual beings and I kind of feel sorry for them. If I have these feelings for Ben and an occasional 18 year old (I’m letting myself believe that this student was actually an adult so I don’t have to gauge my eyes out!), men must truly suffer. I think I’m prettier now than I was in high school. But there is a certain air about a young woman that is both stunning and fleeting. Unfortunately for our society, this trait does not always wait for an 18th birthday.
Believe me, I do not troll my old high school for dates. But honestly, just because I don’t want to be in a relationship with Ben doesn’t mean that we can’t… hold hands. Just kidding. ;)
*Back Shaft Productions Spirit Spot: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l_0cuVeaecQ
*Oh Yeah:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OG_6CopW9GQ
I recently heard a Justin Bieber song. He was asking a girl to love him. I’m not gonna lie. I like the song. I think it’s kinda hot, actually. No, I don’t want to be the one to love Justin Bieber, but maybe we could just hold hands?
I swim at 5AM three times a week at my old high school. I do drills for two hours. There’s no music in the water, so I usually have the last song I heard in the car stuck in my head for most of practice. This morning it was Taio Cruz’ Dynamite. I never liked that song until it was made famous by Back Shaft Productions (the Naval Academy’s fictional production studio) for a Spirit Spot against Air Force.* Do you have any idea what it’s like to sing one verse to yourself for two hours, especially when the words are all wrong? As it turns out, there is no mention of Galileo in that song at all. When I’m not singing to myself I try to keep track of my laps and repetitions. In my head it goes something like 25-25-25... FLIP, 50-50-50… FLIP… It’s not a very entertaining sport.
Swimming at my Alma Mater is not all bad, though. For starters, I have killer arms, shoulder and back muscles now. Really, not too shabby at all if I do say so myself... But most of all, there’s Ben, one of my three swim coaches. Ben is an All American. Some call it stalking, but I call it a bit of “investigative reporting.” Ben lettered in varsity sports nine times at the University of Michigan. Swimming and baseball. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to be a varsity athlete in college, let alone to be one in two different sports?
On the weeks when Ben is not coaching, he often joins us for a swim. When he walks into the pool I can’t help but stop and stare. It’s like he walks in slow motion and I hear “Oh Yeah” from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.** He sets his things down, then takes his clothes off and I swear the water gets a little warmer. I was a pretty girl in high school. Never had issues with weight, acne, braces, oily hair or glasses. But when I stare at him, with his perfectly chiseled 6”3, 190 pound frame (“investigative reporting!”), I feel like I have all of those issues at once; giggling coyly when he smiles at me while his tooth sparkles like an Orbitz commercial. I want to wrap him up and take him home to cook for me and perform… other household duties.
So, why am I not planning my wedding at the Plaza this June (which I have on reserve every year, for the next ten years - I mean, a girl can never be too prepared.)? Well, Ben is a child. Or close enough. He graduated from college in 2008. Ben is 24. Despite the half your age plus seven rule, I still feel like a naughty old cougar when I think of him. I’m just three cats, a girdle and a pair of Lycra cheetah patterned pants away from sealing the deal.
I am embarrassed and also a little hesitant to admit that I found myself “observing” one of the male high school swimmers. I didn’t realize he was a student until he started swimming with the rest of the high school team. He was swimming in the lane closest to the adults and he had a five o’clock shadow! How was I supposed to know that he was a child? These people should come stamped with gigantic tattoos. “I AM A MINOR,” and it should be printed all over their bodies! What is wrong with me?!
I have no interest in dating younger men, and not just because it would land me on a list that keeps me 100 yards away from schools and Ice Cream trucks. I am actually attracted to older men. Looks have little bearing on my choice for a partner. I care more about someone’s ability to make me laugh, challenge me, grow with me and ultimately provide for a family than I do about the size of his biceps or a pretty face. But men are different. They don’t think like normal people. They are visual beings and I kind of feel sorry for them. If I have these feelings for Ben and an occasional 18 year old (I’m letting myself believe that this student was actually an adult so I don’t have to gauge my eyes out!), men must truly suffer. I think I’m prettier now than I was in high school. But there is a certain air about a young woman that is both stunning and fleeting. Unfortunately for our society, this trait does not always wait for an 18th birthday.
Believe me, I do not troll my old high school for dates. But honestly, just because I don’t want to be in a relationship with Ben doesn’t mean that we can’t… hold hands. Just kidding. ;)
*Back Shaft Productions Spirit Spot: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l_0cuVeaecQ
*Oh Yeah:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OG_6CopW9GQ
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)