a blog launched to laugh at my own expense

One Triathlon Down. Zero to Go

Once upon a time, I watched a documentary. Instead of my normal Netflix's genre of romance, I cried my way through a factual account of childhood obesity. Motivated by the documentary's documentation of the apparent correlation of weight loss and exercise, I decided maybe it was time I try this 'exercise' business again.

Since I am allergic to all traditional forms of exercise like joining a gym and workout classes, I decided that my impending adulthood obesity could only be challenged by a Triathlon. In my mind, this triathlon (a total exercise requirement of 1 hour on an isolated September Sunday morning) was the solution to my 24 years of fast food eating.

As soon as I set my sight on a triathlon, I set my second sight on not paying the $300 registration fee. So I posted a solicitation imploring my co-workers to participate in the most Instagram-able adventure of their Summer.... a Triathlon. I advertised the tri with the following irrefutable reasons: A.) They would always have a response to a Tinder message asking  'Whats up?", B.) They would certainly become their parents' favorite child, and C.) Have a solid excuse not go out on a Saturday night. Only two answered the call. (Hashtag love you Lauren and Sam)

Our company* (*best company in the world) eagerly agreed to cover our registration fee and moments later I was tackling the next important step in tri-prep. Forget training, I needed a NEW wet suit ASAP.

My sports motto is "Outfit before Endeavor". I assumed that the moment I verbally committed to the tri, my early on-set adult obesity weight would start falling off. As per usual, I assumed wrong and the wet suit I ordered was two sizes too small. Zipping the suit closed was impossible, which  I only discovered after ripping all the tags off and making the wet suit un-returnable. Hash tag some people (this person) never learns.

Since I was unable to wear my wet suit, I decided I would wear a neon Speedo instead. That way it would be easier to find my dead/drowned body on the bottom of the Potomac River. (A recent Google search informed me that 'Swimming is the most deadly leg of a triathlon')  Once I accepted possible/potential/probable death,  I flutter kicked myself for not keeping my high school swim cap.


The next thing I know, before I could contract West Nile Virus or any other ailment that would disqualify me from the event, it was Race Day. This was how I felt about only practicing 3.5 times in 8 weeks:

But this is how I felt as soon as the event speakers played Justin Beiber's new song:

After ensuring my Last Will and Testament was current and 'sparkle confetti cannons'  had been pre-ordered for my funeral, I jumped feet first into the water and immediately swam into a police boat. I recovered,  swallowed a couple pounds of toxic Potomac water and waited for a miracle.

It happened. My miracle happened. Not only did I survive, but I thrived... placing in the top 120 out of 1032 swimmers and our team earned second place in our Division. And I got 84 Instagram likes. A successful Sunday in my book.

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