Sep
15
So the triathlon I’m doing—and can I just interrupt myself, like, immediately here and say that I wish that different lengths of triathlons had different easily-recognized names so it’s more clear that what I’m signed up for is the beginner’s training-wheel version and not an IRONMAN or some shit, I mean I know it’s technically called a super-sprint but that makes it sound like I’m going to try and do it really really fast which is highly unlikely unless my athletic abilities miraculously skyrocket between now and Saturday and/or someone plants a jet propeller in my ass; every time I mention this triathlon I feel like I need to downplay its difficulty which is kind of ironic given how utterly FREAKED OUT I am by the looming race date and, oh, the little matter of having spent most of my summer planning for it and taking swimming lessons, for god’s sake; so let it be known I want FULL CREDIT for the ass-kicking task I’m about to take on, but just so we’re perfectly clear: this is not a full triathlon—is Saturday, and I can tell I’m pretty much having nonstop anxiety about it because every time I remember that it’s in less than a week I have to leap to my feet and run off to the bathroom to pee a tiny little useless pee like a nervous, brain-damaged Pomeranian. It’s going to be a RIOT on Saturday morning when I’m standing around before the swimming stage all sausage-packed into my wetsuit and having to unpeel myself every thirty seconds and scurry to the Porta-Potties.
I’m feeling most squirrelly about the swimming portion, because although I have improved greatly, if I do say so myself, from the head-aloft dog paddle I was doing before, I’m still not the strongest swimmer and I get a little panicky when I have to share a lane with someone at the pool, which doesn’t bode well for my ability to handle the group start when a billion thrashing-salmon racers hit the water at the same time. Despite some lofty plans to improve my open water technique (by which I mean tamping down on the desire to shriek my lungs out like the skinny-dipping girl in the opening scene of Jaws when my hand comes into contact with marine plant life) I only swam in non-chlorinated water twice this summer. So I’ll have to, you know, try and nut up over the fact that the swim segment is in an actual lake that is presumably not perfectly clear or devoid of non-water contents, nor will it be marked with a comforting black directional stripe.
I plan to wear a swimsuit with (non-padded) biking shorts under the wetsuit, and once I heave myself out of the water and get out of the Body Glove that’s what I’ll have on for the bike/run. It is every bit as attractive as you might imagine—the various bits of flesh erupting from the supertight swimsuit, the Lycra shorts clinging in a moist, inappropriate manner— and while I keep telling myself it’s about comfort and not having to slow down to change outfits altogether I’m sure I will experience at least one humiliating moment where I realize I’m out in public wearing this insane getup and I’m not even drunk.
JB convinced me to buy some of those sports gels and I tried one yesterday and damned if it doesn’t taste exactly like the gelatinous substance that forms the goo in those Hostess pies. Which is to say, it’s sort of terrifying and delicious at the same time, like the pregnancy glucose drink. I don’t know if I’ll use any during the race but it’s nice to know I can treat someone’s diabetic hypoglycemia in an emergency. (“EAT THIS GEL! IT TASTES LIKE CHEMICAL PIE!”)
I’m going to try and do one low-key run, bike ride, and swim this week, just to feel somewhat familiar with all three activities, but other than that there’s not much more I can do to prepare. Other than pee constantly, of course. And eat everything in sight, because 1) that’s how I deal with stress these days, and 2) as far as I’m concerned when there’s a sports event in your future, even if it’s many days away, “binge eating” magically becomes “carb loading”. Don’t mind the ever-present Ben & Jerry’s IV stand, I’m carb loading over here.
Sep
14
Sometimes I think why can’t you just stop and
be
in this moment
stop
just
stop
and be here
all of your attention
and sometimes I feel like screaming because
there are two of them
and I
can’t no matter how hard I
try but
let’s not lie
sometimes I don’t
try as hard as
I should
Sometimes when I’m at work I
want to be home and sometimes when I’m home I
want to be at work
or at least somewhere
with adults
and the luxury
of not doing the eight million things
I wish I didn’t have to do when I am
doing them
that I wish I were able to do
when I am
not
Sometimes
I don’t feel particularly
good at
any of my
jobs
Sometimes I feel so restless and
bored and
I wish I could just
leave
go to the
bookstore or the
wherever
without the back and forth and the favors and the tick tick ticking clock while I’m gone
and the moment I see
someone else’s child when I’m on my own I
feel guilty and sad and I miss them and
sometimes when I get home I think how I just want to
leave
all over
again
Sometimes I tell myself over and over that it will be easier when they’re
older
and isn’t that nice how I am
wishing away these years I will never
ever
get back
This weekend I felt like I was pacing in my
life like a zoo animal
trapped and wild-eyed
and I was frustrated with one child for being
well
the short story is
for being 19 months old
and I was angry with the other child for
refusing to eat and he started whining and something in me gave way
all at once
like a rotted old barn
and I reached out and grabbed his shirt and pulled him
howling
across the kitchen bench and yanked him to his feet and
my voice was
it was
(I don’t even want to remember)
so loud
and all I wanted in that moment was for him to feel
just as miserable as I did
I could have
slapped him
until my hand ached
(I did not)
and it was all over
some
fucking
chicken
later when I could
breathe I
realized that if I’d felt trapped
before
by neediness and fussing and the confines of parenthood
that was nothing compared to the feeling of
knowing
exactly
what kind of person you are capable
of being
and you can’t take it back
(you can say you are sorry)
(but you can’t)
(go back)
(and make it unhappen)
I felt like one of those Russian dolls where every successively smaller part of me was
held inside
another and they were all
ugly
broken and
terrible
Sometimes I am lifted by them
scattered in the air like a million spinning dandelion seeds
blown by my child
(who calls them
candle flowers)
and sometimes I am held fast to the earth
counting the minutes
until I can escape
everything I hold closest to my heart
I am ashamed that
sometimes I turn on the TV because I just want them to
shut
up
Sometimes it seems relentless
and I can only see the side of the coin with the
drudgery
like that which I am most proud of
is a jail sentence that goes on and on and
oh what a
fucked up
way to look at it
because the other side
is indescribable
in its beauty
and if you must endure one to be gifted with the other
such is
life
Sometimes these bad moments feel
consuming
but sometimes
(most of the time)
(most of you understand)
they are not
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