I’m the least-athletic person you know.
I’m sure I’ve told you that in elementary school, there was this poor lunking girl also named June who was somehow touched in the head. I’d like to think nowadays she’d have gotten more help. She was sort of out of it, and also she had really bad asthma, and they just kind of stuck her in school and made her duke it out with the other kids.
When it came time to pick teams, which I think might be the worst thing you can do to a kid, at the end it’d always be the touched girl and me.
Stupid team leaders would stare at us both, then sigh.
“Gardens,” the stupid athletic leader kid, who I hope has bad knees now, would say, with the joy of a thousand funerals. I was always second-to-last. Thank god for the poor other June. She kept me from dead last.
Knowing you’re really bad at athletic things doesn’t encourage you to become an athletic thing. I wasn’t inspired to break through my issues and score the winning touchdown on the baseball field or whatever.
I have never known the joy of winning anything, other than the evident genetic lottery with all this hotness. And that is why, 19 years ago now, I trained for six months and ran a marathon. I wish blogs had been a thing then, because you would have had six months of me complaining about people asking, “A marathon? Are you going to run 26 miles, or…?”
THAT’S A MARATHON. YES. OTHERWISE I’D HAVE SAID a 10K or a — oh, never mind.
Believe it or not, my physique from running 26 miles (“Are you running 26 miles, or…?”) has left the building, the temple that is June Gardens. So that is why I once again picked up the mantle of athleticism and got a personal trainer in May. I get athletic once a generation.
One might wonder how I can afford to do that, hire a trainer, and I will tell you: I have $700 each pay period to throw around after I pay bills. And by “throw around,” I mean I have $700 for frivolous things like food and dog food and cat food and vet bills, but also for StitchFix, which I quit; and Netflix, which I quit; and Amazon Prime, which I quit; and pedicures and eyebrow waxes, which I quit. That manicure I got with The Poet last Friday was the first nail thing I’d done in an age. I used to go once a month.
So I gave up a lotta small things in order to have this big thing, which costs me $180 out of my $700 each pay period.
However, I just love it. She makes me do things I’d never do, like get up from the couch, for example. But also, if I’d gone to a gym, I’d never have tried to balance on that stupid half ball thing that looks like an enormous blemish. I’d have done zero squats. And plank this.
When I got in my accident and couldn’t go, I figured I’d have to start from scratch once I returned, but I’m happy to report that after three weeks back I look about the same as I did after three months of early workouts.
And here’s the best part, other than my Michelle Obama arms, and you can all suck it with your peasant woman dough arms. Okay, my arms aren’t Michelle Obama yet BUT THEY LOOK BETTER.
Anyway, the best part is, she’ll ask me to do something I couldn’t do a few weeks before. Like, this one thing? She puts down what looks like two paper plates only they’re made of plastic. And I have to do a goddamn plank and put my feet on those paper plates and move my legs about like a bug.
The first time we tried it, it was a bust. I couldn’t even do the plank part, much less the paper plate part. “Okay, maybe we don’t do these,” she said, shuffling me off to the giant blemish.
She got out those paper plates on Tuesday, and I was all, doesn’t she remember I can’t do these? God. And then I got into a plank and moved those paper plates around like it was no big deal. Like I was the fittest bug in town.
Also on Tuesday she had me lie on the floor with a thick heavy medicine ball in my hands, and I don’t even like medicine. I never even watched Dr. Quilt Medicine Woman or whatever it was. Anyway I lifted the heavy ball over my head, DID A SIT-UP and threw the ball at her.
“Does she honestly think I can–” I started, before DOING A DAMN SITUP WITH THAT MILLION-POUND BALL AND THROWING IT THE FUCK RIGHT AT HER.
Sometimes when I write “fuck” I think of gentle, faithful reader Tee who has put up with my fucks for 10+ years now.
So, my point is, other than on the day of my marathon, October 22, 2000, I think this is the most athletic I’ve ever been. I am available for all your soccer skirmishes and football contests if you need a third or whatever.