(This post is loosely based, okay, entirely based on real events. I’m a veritable minefield of mockable traits already, so what’s one more?)
I’m sure it’s happened to everyone. Picture it:
The night before, you plan on going to the gym with the kid for a light workout with the weights and whatnot; crunches, planks, lunges, and what have you – nothing too strenuous – just another typical evening on the mat working up a light sweat. The plan then is to drop the kid off at the ‘Fun Factory’ for an hour while you hit up the weight room and do your thing. Afterwards, you’ll spend some time doing flips, bobs and god knows what else in pool during Family Swim before heading home, a snack, and bedtime. What could be easier?
So you plan everything out: load up the iPod with some tunes, fill up the water bottle, pack up your swim trunks, and stash away a protein bar (gluten free, of course) in your gym bag for after your workout. Once you arrive, you drop the kid off at the ‘Fun Factory’, get changed, and head upstairs to do your thing for an hour or so; easy peasy lemon squeezy.
Once you’re finished after an hour of giv’en ‘er, you pick the kid up and wisk her into the family change room to get ready to go swimming. Time for fun time! You have a quick nibble on your protein bar while you get changed and then head out to the pool area for some fun. Whoo-ha! (Am I Super Dad or what?)
Anyway, things couldn’t go smoother at this point. She’s happy, you’re happy…everybody is just freakin’ fabulous. So when the pool closes 30 minutes later, you get out, get dried off, pack up and make your way home; no muss no fuss. Everything is glorious.
The problem begins the next day. The schedule calls for a pool workout. No problem, right? So you gather your swim shit together – as you do – including whatever specific workout from your big collection of pool workouts you choose to do and then head on off to the pool. Just another typical day in the day and life of a normal triathlete, right? Yeah, you rock superstar!
But then, once you’ve finished your workout it all begins to unravel in the change room. As you shimmy out of your Speedo’s you notice a big chunk of brown stuff on the inside of your trunks and you begin to panic:
“Oh no, Oh no, Oh no, Oh no, Oh no, Oh please God no…”
Then you notice that everyone else in the change room is sending you looks of total disgust as they begin to slink away in fear and repulsion. Then you see it in the mirror behind you: your bare ass is literally smeared with more of that brown stuff. Your panic turns to total dismay and horror as you sprint to the nearest private changing stall to survey the damage. A little trail of flames literally follows you across the floor and into the stall you’re moving so fucking quick. However, there is little doubt now that everyone has already noticed your dire predicament.
“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck….”
What started out as a great workout has now evolved into a total ‘suck a bag of dicks’. You feel about two centimeters tall and your cheeks are literally burning with complete and total embarrassment – that’s definitely not the chlorine. Now what? You’re standing there holding a soiled Speedo with more crap apparently smeared all over your ass. How could this have happened? Is this what it’s like to be an incontinent senior citizen? Do you need to begin wearing in Depends? Should you begin seeking out retirement homes? Oh Christ.
But then you notice something strange: the brown substance in your Speedo is, well, different. Different in that it has…yes…it definitely has other stuff in it too…cookie crumbs to be exact. Hey, it’s not shit at all! Then the whole swirling, sordid vortex of entropy begins to dawn on you that the leftover bit of protein bar from the night before has fallen out of the package in your gym bag and a piece has lodged itself in your Speedo which you never noticed as you got changed this morning prior to your workout. So for 3.5k you’ve literally been swimming with a gluten free protein bar stuck to your ass, which has now melted and smeared itself all over your cheeks.
“Holy fuckfarts! You’re saved! Saints be praised!”
Whew! But now what? Everyone in the change room still thinks you’ve shit yourself in the pool. So, pop quiz hot shot: what’s your next move?
Inquiring mind wants to know for, you know, interest sake…
fatandthefurious 