I have to get over the Fuck-Its, at least where my workouts are concerned. Yesterday, Scott almost beat me up a hill during our bike ride. And by almost beat I mean when I turned around to look at how far behind he was, I could actually see him. I had to work extra hard to leave him in the dust and came up with a plan to fake an asthma attack in case he got close enough to catch me. The stability of my self-esteem has a direct correlation with my ability to beat people at things.
It's nice to have BF back where he can push me harder, as he's been MIA with the whole cross-country biking thing since he became a real man and bought a 50-pound downhill mountain bike, complete with a triple-crown front fork and 160mm of travel (trust me, it's very manly and awesome and I totally know what I'm talking about).
Ironically, it was the Neighbor who introduced Scott to downhill mountain biking, and it's usually Neighbor who prevents Scott from going. We've learned that once Neighbor's manliness pokes through the door, all bets are off unless those bets involve Sailor Jerry, video games, or carne asada chips. Hey, honey want a fantastic blow job? I've hired you a stripper. This will elicit exactly one response from the mancave: the surround sound being turned up to max volume to ensure no outside noises penetrate the sacred den.
So BF has learned to wake up just a little bit earlier and bike or run first thing, before Neighbor has a chance to sabotage all dreams of a six-pack. Because where he's concerned, we're talking more of a 24-pack or a full handle of rum.
In summary, I can't not care about working out anymore, because either people will tell me I look pregnant or my self-esteem will suffer because someone might actually come close to beating me. Either way, I'm over it. And not in the fuck-it kind of way, but the fuck the fuck-its kind of way. At least for now, because now is when my ass needs me the most.
1 comment:
Well...it's hard to consider such things here Down South, where gentlemen are still gentlemen and the idea of beating a Lady at anything is as alien as a bidet.
But I'll ponder on your health concerns and tacit advice as I stretch out with my mail over a breakfast of scrambled eggs, pancakes, sausages, bacon, fresh fruit, a pint of coffee, a glass of orange juice, milk, two Bloody Marys and a beaker of rum to wash it all down while I lay back naked in the sun on the porch and decide what it is I need to write about today.
Such is la dolce vita.
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