Friday, October 3, 2008

Bet you never knew Yellaphants had speed like that

I am a runner schlepper. Running Schlepping is not a means for me to display my amazing athleticism to the citizens of my neighborhood. It is not a means of competition. It is a means for me to drink more beer and eat more cookies.

But every so often I'm struck with the urge to work, like really work, like work so hard that I can eat as many cookies as I want when I'm done because DANG I just worked so hard.

So yesterday I went to the track to do some sprints and no, readers mom, I have no idea what I was thinking because I haven't gone to a track to do sprints since I was in high school and it was mandatory because I was on the track team and that's what track teams do and you can only hide from your track coach in your locker for so long before your kilt starts to itch and you realize that it really smells in there because of that bologna sandwich that you stashed in there some time last month and forgot about because oh! pizza day!

And at first last night I was all YEAH YEAH YEAH WATCH ME FLY, BETCHES. And then I finished my first sprint of 21 and thought I was going to blow some serious chunks. And by the end of my first lap I was feeling a bit like this:

Especially when I flashed that old man with the white hair who kept passing me because how is it physically possible that the old man with the white hair and tube socks is that fast, huh? And every time he whizzed past, he whispered get off the track, pussy in my ear. Just kidding, he didn't actually say that but it would have been pretty awesome if he did. He did, however, tell me I had nice legs, which was equally as awesome because nothing makes you feel fitter than a white-haired old man in tube socks who likes your legs but let me tell you, my legs aren't nearly as nice as his lean, hairless limbs.

Anyway, if my 16-year-old track team self had seem my current 23-year-old self making my way around that track, my 16-year-old self would have been all what is wrong with you? Stop flailing your arms. Are you farting? As she effortlessly passed me with the smooth ease of a gazelle. Then as she was lapping me, she would have been all by the way, can you buy me beer?

After my workout, dazed and with a weird ringing in my ears, I came home and took a hot shower to muffle my sobs soothe my aching muscles. And then I had a beer because suck it, 16-year-old self, let's see you try that one on a school night.

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1 comment:

Katya said...

rahahahaha i miss your beer loving chocolate eating cereal worshipping self. all 23 fat old years of it.


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